Someone Loves Us All.

Democracy In The Contemporary World Demands, Among Other Things, An Educated And Informed People.

I've Never Written The Things I'd Like To Write That I've Admired All My Life. Maybe One Never Does.

Being A Poet Is One Of The Unhealthier Jobs--no Regular Hours, So Many Temptations!

What One Seems To Want In Art, In Experiencing It, Is The Same Thing That Is Necessary For Its Creation, A Self-forgetful, Perfectly Useless Concentration.

I Am In Need Of Music That Would Flow Over My Fretful, Feeling Finger-tips, Over My Bitter-tainted, Trembling Lips, With Melody, Deep, Clear, And Liquid-slow. Oh, For The Healing Swaying, Old And Low, Of Some Song Sung To Rest The Tired Dead, A Song To Fall Like Water On My Head, And Over Quivering Limbs, Dream Flushed To Glow! There Is A Magic Made By Melody: A Spell Of Rest, And Quiet Breath, And Cool Heart, That Sinks Through Fading Colors Deep To The Subaqueous Stillness Of The Sea, And Floats Forever In A Moon-green Pool, Held In The Arms Of Rhythm And Of Sleep.