To-night When The Full-bellied Moon Swallows The

Poetry Is The Most Concentrated Form Of Literature; It Is The Most Emotionalized And Powerful Way In Which Thought Can Be Presented.

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

Happiness: We Rarely Feel It. I Would Buy It, Beg It, Steal It, Pay In Coins Of Dripping Blood For This One Transcendent Good.

Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.