Existence Has Overpowered Books. Today I Slew

Here Is A Little Forest Whose Leaf Is Ever Green; Here Is A Brighter Garden, Where Not A Frost Has Been; In Its Unfading Flowers I Hear The Bright Bee Hum; Prithee, My Brother, Into My Garden Come!

Pardon My Sanity In A World Insane

As Summer Into Autumn Slips And Yet We Sooner Say "the Summer" Than "the Autumn," Lest We Turn The Sun Away, And Almost Count It An Affront The Presence To Concede Of One However Lovely, Not The One That We Have Loved - So We Evade The Charge Of Years On One Attempting Shy The Circumvention Of The Shaft Of Life's Declivity.

I Tasted Life.

I Cannot Help Esteem The 'bird Within The Hand' Superior To The One The 'bush' May Yield Me Or May Not Too Late To Choose Again