It Is Slavery To Live In The

We Wanderers, Ever Seeking The Lonelier Way, Begin No Day Where We Have Ended Another Day; And No Sunrise Finds Us Where Sunset Left Us.

Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter’s Oven?

Poetry, My Dear Friends, Is A Sacred Incarnation Of A Smile. Poetry Is A Sigh That Dries The Tears. Poetry Is A Spirit Who Dwells In The Soul, Whose Nourishment Is The Heart, Whose Wine Is Affection. Poetry That Comes Not In This Form Is A False Messiah.

Why Dispute What We Shall Be, When We Know Not Even What We Are.

All You Have Shall Some Day Be Given. Therefore Give Now, That The Season Of Giving May Be Yours And Not Your Inheritors.