Longing Alone Is Singer To The Lute.

There Is No God. But It Does Not Matter. Man Is Enough.

There Isn't A Train I Wouldn't Take, No Matter Where It's Going.

Now The Autumn Shudders In The Rose's Root. Far And Wide The Ladders Lean Among The Fruit. Now The Autumn Clambers Up The Trellised Frame, And The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came. Brighter Than The Blossom On The Rose's Bough Sits The Wizened Orange, Bitter Berry Now; Beauty Never Slumbers; All Is In Her Name; But The Rose Remembers The Dust From Which It Came.

I, Being Born A Woman And Distressed By All The Needs And Notions Of My Kind.

If I Could Have Two Things In One: The Peace Of The Grave, And The Light Of The Sun.