As A Rule, It Was

Thousands Have Lived Without Love, Not One Without Water.

Far From His Illness The Wolves Ran On Through The Evergreen Forests, The Peasant River Was Untempted By The Fashionable Quays; By Mourning Tongues The Death Of The Poet Was Kept From His Poems.

In The End, Art Is Small Beer. The Really Serious Things Are Earning One's Living So As Not To Be A Parasite And Loving One's Neighbor.

A Man Is A Form Of Life That Dreams In Order To Act And Acts In Order To Dream.

Adjectives Are The Potbelly Of Poetry.