Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of

A Liar Is A Liar And Lives On The Lies He Tells And Dies In A Life Of Lies.

I Have Often Wondered What It Is An Old Building Can Do To You When You Happen To Know A Little About Things That Went On Long Ago In That Building.

Poetry Is The Silence And Speech Between A Wet Struggling Root Of A Flower And A Sunlit Blossom Of That Flower.

Tell No Man Anything, For No Man Listens Yet Hold Thy Lips Ready To Speak.

In Democracy Both A Deep Reverence And A Sense Of The Comic Are Requisite.