What Will I Do When I Can

And Love Was Creation's Source,creation's Ruler; But All Love's Ways Are Strewn With Blossoms And Blood, Blossoms And Blood.

The Other One He Loved Like A Slave, Like A Madman And Like A Beggar. Why? Ask The Dust On The Road And The Falling Leaves, Ask The Mysterious God Of Life; For No One Knows Such Things. She Gave Him Nothing, No Nothing Did She Give Him And Yet He Thanked Her. She Said: Give Me Your Peace And Your Reason! And He Was Only Sorry She Did Not Ask For His Life.

There Was A Rock In Front Of My Hut, A Tall, Gray Rock. By Its Looks It Seemed To Be Well-disposed Toward Me.

Language Must Resound With All The Harmonies Of Music. The Writer Must Always, At All Times, Find The Tremulous Word Which Captures The Thing And Is Able To Draw A Sob From My Soul By Its Very Rightness.

What If One Were Up There, Drifting About Among Suns And Feeling The Tails Of Comets Fan One's Forehead! How Small The Earth Was And How Puny The People; A Norway Of Two Million Provincial Souls And A Mortgage Bank To Help Feed Them! What Was Life Worth At Such A Rate? You Elbowed Yourself Ahead In The Sweat Of Your Face For A Few Mortal Years, Only To Perish All The Same, All The Same!