One of the hardest things in life to accept is a called third strike.

The mind-is not the heart. I may yet live, as I know others live, To wish in vain to let go with the mind- Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me That I need learn to let go with the heart.

I consider myself a poet first and a musician second. I live like a poet and I'll die like a poet.

Not yesterday I learned to know,The love of bare November days,Before the coming of the snow.

You live you die and death not ends it.

Sometimes, when I'm alone, I cry, 'cause I am on my own. The tears I cry are bitter and warm. They flow with life, but take no form. I cry because my heart is torn. I find it difficult to carry on. If I had an ear to confide in, I would cry among my treasured friends, but who do you know that stops that long, to help another carry on?