One Gets To The Heart Of The

Love Is A Universal Migraine. A Bright Stain On The Vision, Blotting Out Reason.

The Sap Of Spring In The Young Wood A-stir Will Celebrate With Green The Mother, And Every Song-bird Shout Awhile For Her; But We Are Gifted, Even In November Rawest Of Seasons, With So Huge A Sense Of Her Nakedly Worn Magnificence We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

If I Were A Girl, I'd Despair. The Supply Of Good Women Far Exceeds That Of The Men Who Deserve Them.

Though Philosophers Like To Define Poetry As Irrational Fancy, For Us It Is Practical, Humorous, Reasonable Way Of Being Ourselves.

Well, We've Been Lucky Devils Both And There Is No Need For A Pledge Or Oath To Bind Our Lovely Friendship Fast, By Firmer Stuff Close Bound Enough.