New Is A Word For Fools In

Space Ails Us Moderns: We Are Sick With Space.

The Tree The Tempest With A Crash Of Wood Throws Down In Front Of Us Is Not To Bar Our Passage To Our Journey's End For Good, But Just To Ask Us Who We Think We Are.

We Can Make A Little Order Where We Are, And Then The Big Sweep Of History On Which We Can Have No Effect Doesn't Overwhelm Us. We Do It With Colors, With A Garden, With The Furnishings Of A Room, Or With Sounds And Words. We Make A Little Form, And We Gain Composure.

A Poet Must Never Make A Statement Simply Because It Sounds Poetically Exciting; He Must Also Believe It To Be True." - W. H. Auden "a Poem...begins As A Lump In The Throat, A Sense Of Wrong, A Homesickness, A Lovesickness...it Finds The Thought And The Thought Finds The Words.

Thinking Is Not To Agree Or Disagree. That's Voting.