My Mind May Be American

Death Has A Hundred Hands And Walks By A Thousand Ways.

The Good Poet Welds His Theft Into A Whole Of Feeling Which Is Unique, Utterly Different From That From Which It Was Torn; The Bad Poet Throws It Into Something Which Has No Cohesion.

People Find A Way In Which They Can Say Something.

For Every Life And Every Act Consequence Of Good And Evil Can Be Shown And As In Time Results Of Many Deeds Are Blended So Good And Evil In The End Become Confounded.

What Is This Self-inside Us, This Silent Observer, Severe And Speechless Critic, Who Can Terrorize Us, And Urge Us Onto Futile Activity, And In The End, Judge Us Still More Severely For The Errors Into Which His Own Reproaches Drove Us?