But The Division In Him Was A

I Used To Be Very Revolutionary, But Now I Think That Nothing Can Be Gained By Brute Force. People Must Be Drawn To Good By Goodness.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

Literature Is The Art Of Discovering Something Extraordinary About Ordinary People, And Saying With Ordinary Words Something Extraordinary.

No Deep And Strong Feeling, Such As We May Come Across Here And There In The World, Is Unmixed With Compassion. The More We Love, The More The Object Of Our Love Seems To Us To Be A Victim.

You Fall Into My Arms. You Are The Good Gift Of Destruction's Path, When Life Sickens More Than Disease And Boldness Is The Root Of Beauty - Which Draws Us Together.