But He Has Gone, A

Only The Road And The Dawn, The Sun, The Wind, And The Rain, And The Watch Fire Under Stars, And Sleep, And The Road Again.

So Death Obscures Your Gentle Form, So Memory Strives To Make The Darkness Bright; And, In That Heap Of Rocks, Your Body Lies, Part Of The Island Till The Planet Ends, My Gentle Comrade, Beautiful And Wise, Part Of This Crag This Bitter Surge Offends, While I, Who Pass, A Little Obscure Thing, War With This Force, And Breathe, And Am Its King.

Life Is A Long Headache In A Noisy Street.

In The Power And Splendor Of The Universe, Inspiration Waits For The Millions To Come. Man Has Only To Strive For It. Poems Greater Than The Iliad, Plays Greater Than Macbeth, Stories More Engaging Than Don Quixote Await Their Seeker And Finder.

Most Roads Lead Men Homewards, My Road Leads Me Forth