Pleasure Is The Carrot Dangled To Lead

I Hate My Verses, Every Line, Every Word. Oh Pale And Brittle Pencils Ever To Try One Grass-blade's Curve, Or The Throat Of One Bird That Clings To Twig, Ruffled Against White Sky. Oh Cracked And Twilight Mirrors Ever To Catch One Color, One Glinting Flash, Of The Splendor Of Things.

Shiva... Is The Only Hunter That Will Ever Catch The Wild Swan; The Prey She Will Take Last Is The Wild White Swan Of The Beauty Of Things. Then She Will Be Alone, Pure Destruction, Achieved And Supreme, Empty Darkness Under The Death-tent Wings. She Will Build A Nest Of The Swan's Bones And Hatch A New Brood, Hang New Heavens With New Birds, All Be Renewed.

The Tides Are In Our Veins, We Still Mirror The Stars, Life Is Your Child, But There Is In Me Older And Harder Than Life And More Impartial, The Eye That Watched Before There Was An Ocean.

Truly Men Hate The Truth; They'd Liefer Meet A Tiger On The Road.

I Believe That The Universe Is One Being, All Its Parts Are Different Expressions Of The Same Energy... Parts Of One Organic Whole.... (this Is Physics, I Believe, As Well As Religion.) The Parts Change And Pass, Or Die, People And Races And Rocks And Stars; None Of Them Seems To Me Important In Itself, But Only The Whole. This Whole Is In All Its Parts So Beautiful, And Is Felt By Me To Be So Intensely In Earnest, That I Am Compelled To Love It, And To Think Of It As Divine.