Time Can Make Soft That

What Terrible Fear Causes Man To Address The Void As Thou?

She Is Happy Where She Lies With The Dust Upon Her Eyes.

Not Poppy, Nor Mandrake, Nor All The Drowsy Syrups Of The World, Shall Ever Medicine Thee To That Sweet Sleep, Which Thou Owest Yesterday.

The Englishman Foxtrots As He Fox-hunts, With All His Being, Through Thickets, Through Ditches, Over Hedges, Through Chiffons, Through Waiters, Over Saxophones, To The Victorious Finish; And Who Goes Home Depends On How Many The Ambulance Will Accommodate.

The Young Are So Old, They Are Born With Their Fingers Crossed.