If The Writer Does Not Cry, The

Yes, And Even For The Past...that It Will Turn Out To Have Been All Right For What It Was. Something I Can Accept. Mistakes Made By The Self I Had To Be Or Was Not Able To Be.

Our Life Runs Down In Sending Up The Clock. The Brook Runs Down In Sending Up Our Life. The Sun Runs Down In Sending Up The Brook. And There Is Something Sending Up The Sun. It Is This Backward Motion Toward The Source, Against The Stream, That Most We See Ourselves In, The Tribute Of The Current To The Source. It Is From This In Nature We Are From. It Is Most Us.

The Only Certain Freedom's In Departure.

I Have Wished A Bird Would Fly Away, And Not Sing By My House All Day; Have Clapped My Hands At Him From The Door When It Seemed As If I Could Bear No More. The Fault Must Partly Have Been In Me. The Bird Was Not To Blame For His Key. And Of Course There Must Be Something Wrong In Wanting To Silence Any Song.

Our Lives Laid Down In War And Peace May Not Be Found Acceptable In Heaven's Sight. And That They May Be Is The Only Prayer Worth Praying. May My Sacrifice Be Found Acceptable In Heaven's Sight.