Nature Is Always Hinting At Us.

Writing A Poem Is Discovering.

The Snake Stood Up For Evil In The Garden.

Ah, When To The Heart Of Man Was It Ever Less Than A Treason To Go With The Drift Of Things, To Yield With A Grace To Reason, And Bow And Accept The End Of A Love Or A Season?

A Poem May Be Worked Over Once It Is In Being, But May Not Be Worried Into Being.

I Am Not A Teacher. I Am An Awakener.