Butterflies...flowers That Fly And All But Sing.

I Dwell With A Strangely Aching Heart In That Vanished Abode There Far Apart

Loyalty Is That For The Lack Of Which Your Gang Will Shoot You Without Benefit Of Trial By Jury.

The Mind-is Not The Heart. I May Yet Live, As I Know Others Live, To Wish In Vain To Let Go With The Mind- Of Cares, At Night, To Sleep; But Nothing Tells Me That I Need Learn To Let Go With The Heart.

I Could Define Poetry This Way: It Is That Which Is Lost Out Of Both Prose And Verse In Translation.

God Once Declared He Was True And Then Took The Veil And Withdrew.