Poetry, Far More Than Fiction, Reveals The

Sexual Love Is The Most Stupendous Fact Of The Universe, And The Most Magical Mystery Our Poor Blind Senses Know.

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.

Life Is A Stream On Which We Strew Petal By Petal The Flower Of Our Heart; The End Lost In Dream, They Float Past Our View, We Only Watch Their Glad, Early Start. Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose; Their Widening Scope, Their Distant Employ, We Never Shall Know. And The Stream As It Flows Sweeps Them Away, Each One Is Gone Ever Beyond Into Infinite Ways. We Alone Stay While Years Hurry On, The Flower Fared Forth, Though Its Fragrance Still Stays.

Art Is Like Politics. Any Theory Carried Too Far Ends In Sterility, And Freshness Is Only Gained By Following Some Other Line.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.