Many Of Us Spend Our Whole Lives

I Am A Poet Who Composes What Life Proses, And Who Proses What Life Composes.

Where Are You Now, My Beloved? Do You Hear My Weeping From Beyond The Ocean? Do You Understand My Need? Do You Know The Greatness Of My Patience?

Miserable Is The Man Who Loves A Woman And Takes Her For His Wife, Pouring At Her Feet The Sweat Of His Skin And The Blood Of His Body And The Life Of His Heart, And Placing Her In The Hands Of The Fruit Of His Toil And The Revenue Of His Diligence; For When He Slowly Wakes Up, He Finds That The Heart That He Endeavored To Buy Is Given Away Freely And In Sincerity To Another Man For The Enjoyment Of Its Hidden Secrets And Deepest Love.

We Who Love Him Beheld Him With These Our Eyes Which He Made To See; And We Touched Him With These Our Hands Which He Taught To Reach Forth.

Your Living Is Determined Not So Much By What Life Brings To You As By The Attitude You Bring To Life; Not So Much By What Happens To You As By The Way Your Mind Looks At What Happens.