I Saw Myself Driving Through Eternity In

To Be Alive And To Be A ‘writer’ Is Enough.

The Fields Are Snowbound No Longer; There Are Little Blue Lakes And Flags Of Tenderest Green. The Snow Has Been Caught Up Into The Sky- So Many White Clouds-and The Blue Of The Sky Is Cold. Now The Sun Walks In The Forest, He Touches The Bows And Stems With His Golden Fingers; They Shiver, And Wake From Slumber. Over The Barren Branches He Shakes His Yellow Curls. Yet Is The Forest Full Of The Sound Of Tears.... A Wind Dances Over The Fields. Shrill And Clear The Sound Of Her Waking Laughter, Yet The Little Blue Lakes Tremble And The Flags Of Tenderest Green Bend And Quiver.

The Whole World Shall Be Ours Because Of Our Love.

Regret Is An Appalling Waste Of Energy, And No One Who Intends To Be A Writer Can Afford To Indulge In It.

Roses Are The Only Flowers At Garden-parties; The Only Flowers That Everybody Is Certain Of Knowing.