I Hold That When A Person Dies

Man Cannot Call The Brimming Instant Back; Time's An Affair Of Instants Spun To Days; If Man Must Make An Instant Gold, Or Black, Let Him, He May; But Time Must Go His Ways. Life May Be Duller For An Instant's Blaze. Life's An Affair Of Instants Spun To Years, Instants Are Only Cause Of All These Tears.

It Ought To Have Gangsters, And Aeroplanes And A Lot Of Automatic Pistols.

His Face Was Filled With Broken Commandments.

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries; I Never Hear The West Wind But Tears Are In My Eyes. For It Comes From The West Lands, The Old Brown Hills, And April's In The West Wind, And Daffodils.

Commonplace People Dislike Tragedy Because They Dare Not Suffer And Cannot Exult.