The One Universal Form Of Art Is

There's Nothing Like Fishing To Pass The Time And To Incline Toward A Sort Of Magnificent Stupidity In Which Nothing Matters But Tackle, Bait, Sunlight And The Strike.

Autumn Burned Brightly, A Running Flame Through The Mountains, A Torch Flung To The Trees.

Men's Private Self-worlds Are Rather Like Our Geographical World's Seasons, Storm, And Sun, Deserts, Oases, Mountains And Abysses, The Endless-seeming Plateaus, Darkness And Light, And Always The Sowing And The Reaping.

We May Differ Widely In Environments, Education, Learning, Knowledge, Or Lack Of It, And In Our Personalities, Our Likes And Dislikes. But If We Set Ourselves The Task, We'll Find A Meeting Place Somehow And Somewhere.

I See Now How Things Even Up, How They Are Squared Away, And How They Balance Under The Law Of Love And Justice. No Year Of Life Is Emotionally, Spiritually Or Even Materially, All Drought Or All Rainfall; Nor Is It All Sun. The Road Turns A Little Every Day, And One Day There's A Sudden Twist We Didn't Dream Was There, And For Every Loss There Is Somewhere A Gain, For Every Grief A Happiness, For Every Deprivation A Giving.