When You Are Born, Your Work Is

If In The Twilight Of Memory We Should Meet Once More,we Shall Speak Again Together And You Shall Sing To Me A Deeper Song. And If Our Hands Should Meet In Another Dream We Shall Build Another Tower In The Sky.

The Poet Is A Bird Of Strange Moods. He Descends From His Lofty Domain To Tarry Among Us, Singing; If We Do Not Honor Him He Will Unfold His Wings And Fly Back To His Dwelling Place.

A Voice Cannot Carry The Tongue And The Lips That Gave It Wings. Alone Must It Seek The Ether. And Alone And Without His Nest Shall The Eagle Fly Across The Sun.

Let Your Bending In The Archer's Hand Be For Gladness, For Even As He Loves The Arrow That Flies, So He Loves Also The Bow That Is Stable.

If It's A Despot You Would Dethrone, See First That His Throne Erected Within You Is Destroyed.