It's Spring When The World

All Nothing's Only Our Hugest Home; The Most Who Die, The More We Live

Seeker Of Truth Follow No Path All Paths Lead Where Truth Is Here.

I Have Found What You Are Like The Rain (who Feathers Frightened Fields With The Superior Dust-of-sleep. Wields Easily The Pale Club Of The Wind And Swirled Justly Souls Of Flower Strike The Air In Utterable Coolness Deeds Of Gren Thrilling Light With Thinned Newfragile Yellows Lurch And.press --in The Woods Which Stutter And Sing And The Coolness Of Your Smile Is Stirringofbirds Between My Arms;but I Should Rather Than Anything Have(almost When Hugeness Will Shut Quietly)almost, Your Kiss

So Far As I Am Concerned, Poetry And Every Other Art Was And Is And Forever Will Be Strictly And Distinctly A Question Of Individuality... If Poetry Is Your Goal, You've Got To Forget All About Punishments And All About Rewards And All About Self-styled Obligations And Duties And Responsibilities Etcetera Ad Infinitum And Remember One Thing Only: That It's You - Nobody Else - Who Determine Your Destiny And Decide Your Fate. Nobody Else Can Be Alive For You; Nor Can You Be Alive For Anybody Else... There's The Artist's Responsibility; And The Most Awful Responsibility On Earth.

I Like My Body When It Is With Your Body. It Is So Quite New A Thing. Muscles Better And Nerves More. I Like Your Body. I Like What It Does, I Like Its Hows. I Like To Feel The Spine Of Your Body And Its Bones, And The Trembling -firm-smooth Ness And Which I Will Again And Again And Again Kiss, I Like Kissing This And That Of You, I Like, Slowly Stroking The, Shocking Fuzz Of Your Electric Fur, And What-is-it Comes Over Parting Flesh ... And Eyes Big Love-crumbs, And Possibly I Like The Thrill Of Under Me You So Quite New.