If Society Abolishes Poetry It Commits Spiritual

Enormous And Solid But Swaying, Beaten By The Wind But Chained, Murmur Of A Million Leaves Against My Window. Riot Of Trees, Surge Of Dark Green Sounds. The Grove, Suddenly Still, Is A Web Of Fronds And Branches.

Love Is Not A Desire For Beauty; It Is A Yearning For Completion.

My Body, Plowed By Your Body, Will Turn Into A Field Where One Is Sown And A Hundred Reaped.

What Distinguishes Modern Art From The Art Of Other Ages Is Criticism.

To Fight Evil Is To Fight Ourselves.