It Seems To Me That The Earth

The Truth Is Artistically Fallacious.

Life Is Strong Stuff, Some Of Us Can Bear More Of It Than Others.

Here In Florida The Seasons Move In And Out Like Nuns In Soft Clothing, Making No Rustle In Their Passing.

Magic Birds Were Dancing In The Mystic Marsh. The Grass Swayed With Them, And The Shallow Waters, And The Earth Fluttered Under Them. The Earth Was Dancing With The Cranes, And The Low Sun, And The Wind And Sky.

People In General Are Totally Unable To Detach The Personality Of A Writer From The Products Of His Thinking.