The Basis Of Art Is Change In

In This Poor Body, Composed Of One Hundred Bones And Nine Openings, Is Something Called Spirit, A Flimsy Curtain Swept This Way And That By The Slightest Breeze. It Is Spirit, Such As It Is, Which Led Me To Poetry, At First Little More Than A Pastime, Then The Full Business Of My Life. There Have Been Times When My Spirit, So Dejected, Almost Gave Up The Quest, Other Times When It Was Proud, Triumphant. So It Has Been From The Very Start, Never Finding Peace With Itself, Always Doubting The Worth Of What It Makes.

O Cricket From Your Cherry Cry No One Would Ever Guess How Quickly You Must Die.

Not To Think Of Yourself / As Someone Who Did Not Count -- / Festival Of The Souls.

On A Bare Branch A Crow Is Perched - Autumn Evening

The Desire To Break The Silence With Constant Human Noise Is, I Believe, Precisely An Avoidance Of The Sacred Terror Of That Divine Encounter.