An Idea Is A Feat

Keep All Ur Troubles In Ur Own Pocket. But, Make Sure That The Pocket Has A Hole!

But These Are Flowers That Fly And All But Sing: And Now From Having Ridden Out Desire They Lie Closed Over In The Wind And Cling Where Wheels Have Freshly Sliced The April Mire.

When I Was Young My Teachers Were The Old. I Gave Up Fire For Form Till I Was Cold.

But I May Be One Who Does Not Care Ever To Have Tree Bloom Or Bear.

It's God - I Recognised Him From Blake's Picture.