If you find yourself half naked and barefoot in the frosty gra**, hearing, again, the earth's great, sonorous moan that says you are the air of the now and gone, that says all you love will turn to dust, and will meet you there, do not raise your first. Do not raise your small voice against it. And do not take cover. Instead, curl your toes into the gra**, watch the cloud ascending from your lips. Walk through the garden's dormant splendor. Say only, thank you. Thank you.