Poetry Must Be As New As Foam

Time Is The School In Which We Learn, Time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.

At The Moment I'm So Exhausted That I Feel Like Cutting My Throat, So The Next News Masy Well Be That I Am Across The River And Under The Trees: What Is The Meaning And Purpose Of Life? Death.

What Was The Freedom To Which The Adult Human Being Rose In The Morning, If Each Act Was Held Back Or Inspired By The Overpowering Ghost Of A Little Child?

Where The Light Is, And Each Thing Clear,separate From All Others, Standing In Its Place,i Drink The Time And Touch Whatever's Near,and Hope For Day When The Whole World Has That Face:for What Assures Her Present Every Year?in Dark Accidents The Mind's Sufficient Grace.

How Could I Think The Brief Years Were Enough To Prove The Reality Of Endless Love?