I Know The Dark Delight Of Being

Upon The Clothes Behind The Tenement, That Hang Like Ghosts Suspended From The Lines, Linking Each Flat, But To Each Indifferent, Incongruous And Strange The Moonlight Shines.

If We Must Die, Let It Not Be Like Hogs Hunted And Penned In An Inglorious Spot, If We Must Die, O Let Us Nobly Die.

We Are Like Trees. We Wear All Colors Naturally.

I Have Forgotten Much, But Still Remember The Poinsiana's Red, Blood-red In Warm December.

Idealism Is Like A Castle In The Air If It Is Not Based On A Solid Foundation Of Social And Political Realism.