Poetry Is Often Generations In Advance Of

Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My Breast, My Side, And Madness Chooses Out My Voice Again, Again.

I Hope That One Or Two Immortal Lyrics Will Come Out Of All This Tumbling Around.

... How Much Of Our Inner Substance Is It Good For Us To Give To Public Griefs? The Whole Modern Tendency To Agonize Over The Suffering Of The Entire Globe Is Surely Something New.

The Initial Mystery That Attends Any Journey Is: How Did The Traveler Reach His Starting Point In The First Place?

Up From The Bronze, I Saw Water Without A Flaw Rush To Its Rest In Air Reach To Its Rest, And Fall.