The Snow Doesn't Give A Soft White

Unbeing Dead Isn't Being Alive.

O Sweet Spontaneous Earth How Often Have The Doting Fingers Of Prurient Philosophers Pinched And Poked Thee ,has The Naughty Thumb Of Science Prodded Thy Beauty .how Often Have Religions Taken Thee Upon Their Scraggy Knees Squeezing And Buffeting Thee That Thou Mightest Conceive Gods (but True To The Incomparable Couch Of Death Thy Rhythmic Lover Thou Answerest Them Only With Spring)

Since Feelings Come First, Who Cares About The Syntax Of Things?

Tumbling-hair Picker Of Buttercups Violets Dandelions And The Big Bullying Daisies Through The Field Wonderful With Eyes A Little Sorry Another Comes Also Picking Flowers

I Thank You God For This Most Amazing Day, For The Leaping Greenly Spirits Of Trees, And For The Blue Dream Of Sky And For Everything Which Is Natural, Which Is Infinite, Which Is Yes.