A Poet Must Need Be Before His

The Child Is Not Mine As The First Was, I Cannot Sing It To Rest, I Cannot Lift It Up Fatherly And Bliss It Upon My Breast; Yet It Lies In My Little One's Cradle And Sits In My Little One's Chair, And The Light Of The Heaven She's Gone To Transfigures Its Golden Hair.

An Angel Stood And Met My Gaze, Through The Low Doorway Of My Tent; The Tent Is Struck, The Vision Stays; I Only Know She Came And Went.

The Ultimate Result Of Protecting Fools From Their Folly Is To Fill The Planet Full Of Fools.

The Nurse Of Full-grown Souls Is Solitude.

The Right To Be A Cussed Fool Is Safe From All Devices Human, It's Common (ez A Gin'i Rule) To Every Critter Born Of Woman.