I've Been Reading A Lot Lately About

Outcasts Of War, Misfits, Rebellious Souls, Seekers Of Some Vague Kingdom In The Stars - They Hide Out In The Hills And Stir Up Trouble, Call Themselves Prophets, Too, And Prophesy, That Something New Is Coming To The World, The Lord Knows What! Well, It's A Long Time Coming, And, Meanwhile, We're The Wheat Between The Stones.

I Have Fallen In Love With American Names, The Sharp Names That Never Get Fat, The Snakeskin-titles Of Mining-claims, The Plumed War-bonnet Of Medicine Hat, Tucson And Deadwood And Lost Mule Flat.

Books Are Not Men And Yet They Are Alive.

Something Begins, Begins; Starlit And Sunlit, Something Walks Abroad, In Flesh And Spirit And Fire. Something Is Loosed To Change The Shaken World.

Broad-streeted Richmond . . . The Trees In The Streets Are Old Trees Used To Living With People, Family Trees That Remember Your Grandfather's Name.