If You Cannot Learn To Love Real

If We Feel The Least Degradation In Being Amorous, Or Merry Or Hungry, Or Sleepy, We Are So Far Bad Animals & Miserable Men.

Artists Cannot Help Themselves; They Are Driven To Create By Their Nature, But For That Nature To Truly Thrive, We Need To Preserve The Precious Habitat In Which That Beauty Can Flourish.

Whiles In The Early Winter Eve We Pass Amid The Gathering Night Some Homestead That We Had To Leave Years Past; And See Its Candles Bright Shine In The Room Beside The Door Where We Were Merry Years Agone But Now Must Never Enter More, As Still The Dark Road Drives Us On. E'en So The World Of Men May Turn At Even Of Some Hurried Day And See The Ancient Glimmer Burn Across The Waste That Hath No Way; Then With That Faint Light In Its Eyes A While I Bid It Linger Near And Nurse In Wavering Memories The Bitter-sweet Of Days That Were.

As To The Garden, It Seems To Me Its Chief Fruit Is-blackbirds.

My Work Is The Embodiment Of Dreams In One Form Or Another.