The Young Are So Old, They Are

I Had A Little Sorrow, Born Of A Little Sin.

April Comes Like An Idiot, Babbling And Strewing Flowers.

Life Must Go On; I Forget Just Why.

For The Body At Best Is A Bundle Of Aches, Longing For Rest; It Cries When It Wakes.

We Think-although Of Course, Now, We Very Seldom Clearly Think- That The Other Side Of War Is Peace.