Time And Tide Wait For No Man,

My Definition Of Poetry (if I Were Forced To Give One) Would Be This: Words That Have Become Deeds.

You Know How Cunningly Mankind Is Planned: We Have One Loving And One Hating Hand. The Loving's Made To Hold Each Other Like, While With The Hating Other Hand We Strike.

If The Writer Does Not Cry, The Reader Does Not Cry.

Nature Is Always Hinting At Us. It Hints Over And Over Again. And Suddenly We Take The Hint.

Now Close The Windows And Hush All The Fields: If The Trees Must, Let Them Silently Toss.