Permit Me Voyage, Love, Into Your Hands.

One Must Be Drenched In Words, Literally Soaked In Them.

And So She Comes To Dream Herself The Tree, The Wind Possessing Her, Weaving Her Young Veins, Holding Her To The Sky And Its Quick Blue, Drowning The Fever Of Her Hands In Sunlight. She Has No Memory, Nor Fear, Nor Hope Beyond The Grass And Shadows At Her Feet.

It Has Taken A Great Deal Of Energy, Which Has Not Been So Difficult To Summon As The Necessary Patience To Wait, Simply Wait Much Of The Time - Until My Instincts Assured Me That I Had Assembled My Materials In Proper Order For A Final Welding Into Their Natural Form.

And Inasmuch As The Bridge Is A Symbol Of All Such Poetry As I Am Interested In Writing It Is My Present Fancy That A Year From Now I'll Be More Contented Working In An Office Than Ever Before.

I Can Remember Much Forgetfulness.