Remembrance Is A Form Of Meeting.

All These Things Shall Love Do Unto You That You May Know The Secrets Of Your Heart, And In That Knowledge Become A Fragment Of Life's Heart.

But If You Love And Must Needs Have Desires, Let These Be Your Desires: To Melt And Be Like A Running Brook That Sings Its Melody To The Night. To Know The Pain Of Too Much Tenderness. To Be Wounded By Your Own Understanding Of Love; And To Bleed Willingly And Joyfully. To Wake At Dawn With A Winged Heart And Give Thanks For Another Day Of Loving; To Rest At Noon Hour And Meditate Love's Ecstasy; To Return Home At Eventide With Gratitude; And Then To Sleep With A Prayer For The Beloved In Your Heart And A Song Of Praise On Your Lips.

The Sea That Calls All Things Unto Her Cals Me, And I Must Embark.

Poetry, My Dear Friends, Is A Sacred Incarnation Of A Smile. Poetry Is A Sigh That Dries The Tears. Poetry Is A Spirit Who Dwells In The Soul, Whose Nourishment Is The Heart, Whose Wine Is Affection. Poetry That Comes Not In This Form Is A False Messiah.

The Only Time A Juggler / Appeals To Me / Is When I See Him / Miss The Ball.