Idealism Is Like A Castle In The

We Are Like Trees. We Wear All Colors Naturally.

The Shivering Birds Beneath The Eaves Have Sheltered For The Night.

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

If A Man Is Not Faithful To His Own Individuality, He Cannot Be Loyal To Anything.

Adventure-seasoned And Storm-buffeted, I Shun All Signs Of Anchorage, Because The Zest Of Life Exceeds The Bound Of Laws.