Life Is A Stream On Which We

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

My Words Are Little Jars For You To Take And Put Upon A Shelf. Their Shapes Are Quaint And Beautiful, And They Have Many Pleasant Colours And Lustres To Recommend Them. Also The Scent From Them Fills The Room With Sweetness Of Flowers And Crushed Grasses.

On The Neck Of The Young Man Sparkles No Gem So Gracious As Enterprise. Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones.

Poetry, Far More Than Fiction, Reveals The Soul Of Humanity.

All Books Are Either Dreams Or Swords, You Can Cut, Or You Can Drug, With Words.