How Terrible The Need For God.

And I Walked, I Walked Through The Light Air; I Moved With The Morning.

Art Is Our Defense Against Hysteria And Death.

A Terrible Violence Of Creation,a Flash Into The Burning Heart Of The Abominable;yet If We Wait, Unafraid, Beyond The Fearful Instant,the Burning Lake Turns Into A Forest Pool,the Fire Subsides Into Rings Of Water,a Sunlit Silence.

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.

Being, Not Doing, Is My First Joy.