Wanderer, Your Footsteps Are The Road, And

The Afternoon Is Bright, With Spring In The Air, A Mild March Afternoon, With The Breath Of April Stirring, I Am Alone In The Quiet Patio Looking For Some Old Untried Illusion - Some Shadow On The Whiteness Of The Wall Some Memory Asleep On The Stone Rim Of The Fountain, Perhaps In The Air The Light Swish Of Some Trailing Gown.

In Order To Write Poetry, You Must First Invent A Poet Who Will Write It.

Death Is Something We Shouldn't Fear Because, While We Are, Death Isn't, And When Death Is, We Aren't.

It Is Good Knowing That Glasses Are To Drink From; The Bad Thing Is Not To Know What Thirst Is For.

By Walking One Makes The Road, And Upon Glancing Behind Sees The Path