What Sort Of God Would It Be,

The Finished Man, You Know, Is Difficult To Please; A Growing Mind Will Ever Show You Gratitude. --faust 1, Lines 182-3

The Bed Of Flowers Loosens Amain, The Beauteous Snowdrops Droop O'er The Plain. The Crocus Opens Its Glowing Bud, Like Emeralds Others, Others, Like Blood. With Saucy Gesture Primroses Flare, And Roguish Violets, Hidden With Care; And Whatsoever There Stirs And Strives, The Spring's Contented, If Works And Thrives.

The Sea Is Flowing Ever, The Land Retains It Never.

What We Don't Understand We Don't Possess.

Poetry Is The Universal Possession Of Mankind, Revealing Itself Everywhere, And At All Times, In Hundreds And Hundreds Of Men.