My Poetry Has Become The Way Of

Give But A Grain Of The Heart's Rich Seed, Confine Some Under Cover, And When Love Goes, Bid Him God-speed. And Find Another Lover.

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set

There Is No Secret To Success Except Hard Work And Getting Something Indefinable Which We Call 'the Breaks.

We Were Not Made To Eternally Weep.

My Poetry Has Become The Way Of My Giving Out What Music Is Within Me.