I fled Him down the nights and down the days I fled Him down the arches of the years I fled Him down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind, and in the midst of tears I hid from him, and under running laughter.
And left the flushed print in a poppy there.
The devil doesn't know how to sing, only how to howl.
All things by immortal power. Near of far, to each other linked are, that thou canst not stir a flower without troubling of a star.
What you theoretically know, vividly realize.
In all change, well looked into, the germinal good out-vails the apparent ill.
