And Now, My Poor Old Woman, Why

I Want A Lot To Eat, I'm Going To Think Today.

He Saw In Happiness The Seeds Of Independence, And In Independence The Seeds Of Revolt.

There Are Times When The Air That Floats Between Mortals Becomes, In Its Stillness And Silence, As Cruel As The Edge Of A Scythe.

Something To Remember, That: Cats For Missiles.

Through Her, In Microcosm, The Wide Earth Sobbed. The Starglobe Sank In Her; The Colours Faded. The Death-dew Rose And The Wild Birds In Her Breast Climbed To Her Throat And Gathered Songless, Hovering, All Tumult, Wing To Wing, So Ardent For Those Climes Where All Things End.