The Artist In Me Cries Out For

The Sun Was Warm But The Wind Was Chill. You Know How It Is With An April Day. When The Sun Is Out And The Wind Is Still, You're One Month On In The Middle Of May. But If You So Much As Dare To Speak, A Cloud Come Over The Sunlit Arch, And Wind Comes Off A Frozen Peak, And You're Two Months Back In The Middle Of March.

Nothing Not Built With Hands Of Course Is Sacred. But Here Is Not A Question Of What's Sacred; Rather Of What To Face Or Run Away From. I'd Hate To Be A Runaway From Nature.

Poetry Is A Reaching Out Forward Expression, An Effort To Find Fulfillment

We Disparage Reason. But All The Time It's What We're Most Concerned With. There's Will As Motor And There's Will As Brakes. Reason Is, I Suppose, The Steering Gear.

Suddenly, Quietly, You Realize That - From This Moment Forth - You Will No Longer Walk Through This Life Alone. Like A New Sun This Awareness Arises Within You, Freeing You From Fear, Opening Your Life. It Is The Beginning Of Love, And The End Of All That Came Before.