All the rest is silence On the other side of the wall, And the silence ripeness, And the ripeness all.
In headaches and in worry Vaguely life leaks away, And Time will have his fancy To-morrow or today.
Like love we don't know where or why Like love we cant compel or fly Like Love we often weep Like Love we seldom keep
The sky is darkening like a stain Something is going to fall like rain And it won't be flowers
I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade
There was still gold and silver in the mountains, And hunger was a more immediate sorrow
The surest sign that a man has a genuine taste of his own is that he is uncertain of it.
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