End Is A Gloomy Word.

Only God And I Knew What I Meant When I Wrote It, Now Only God Knows

Ah, When To The Heart Of Man Was It Ever Less Than A Treason To Go With The Drift Of Things, To Yield With A Grace To Reason, And Bow And Accept The End Of A Love Or A Season?

O Hushed October Morning Mild, Begin The Hours Of This Day Slow, Make The Day Seem To Us Less Brief... Retard The Sun With Gentle Mist; Enchant The Land With Amethyst.

The Chance Is The Remotest, Of Its Going Much Longer Unnoticed, That I'm Not Keeping Pace With The Headlong Human Race

A Poem Begins With A Lump In The Throat; A Homesickness Or A Love Sickness. It Is A Reaching-out Toward Expression; An Effort To Find Fulfillment. A Complete Poem Is One Where An Emotion Has Found Its Thought And The Thought Has Found Words.