Lose Something Every Day. Accept

If After I Read A Poem The World Looks Like That Poem For 24 Hours Or So I'm Sure It's A Good One—and The Same Goes For Paintings.

I Am In Need Of Music That Would Flow Over My Fretful, Feeling Finger-tips, Over My Bitter-tainted, Trembling Lips, With Melody, Deep, Clear, And Liquid-slow. Oh, For The Healing Swaying, Old And Low, Of Some Song Sung To Rest The Tired Dead, A Song To Fall Like Water On My Head, And Over Quivering Limbs, Dream Flushed To Glow! There Is A Magic Made By Melody: A Spell Of Rest, And Quiet Breath, And Cool Heart, That Sinks Through Fading Colors Deep To The Subaqueous Stillness Of The Sea, And Floats Forever In A Moon-green Pool, Held In The Arms Of Rhythm And Of Sleep.

What Childishness Is It That While There's Breath Of Life In Our Bodies, We Are Determined To Rush To See The Sun The Other Way Around?

What The Man-moth Fears Most He Must Do.

Even Losing You (the Joking Voice, A Gesture I Love) I Shan't Have Lied. It's Evident The Art Of Losing's Not Too Hard To Master Though It May Look Like (write It!) Like Disaster.