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Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping,...
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These are the small townsmen of death, A man and a woman, like two leaves...
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Rosenbloom is dead. The tread of the carriers does not halt...
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People fall out of windows, trees tumble down, Summer is changed to winter, the young grow old...
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To be young is all there is in the world. They talk so beautifully about work and having a family and a home (and I do, too, sometimes) --but it's all worry and head-aches and respectable poverty and forced gushing. Telling people how nice it is, when, in reality, you would give all of your last thirty years for one of your first thirty. Old people are tremendous frauds.
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