Pathmaker, There Is No Path;

Wanderer, Your Footsteps Are The Road, And Nothing More; Wanderer, There Is No Road, The Road Is Made By Walking. By Walking One Makes The Road, And Upon Glancing Behind One Sees The Path. . .

Last Night As I Was Sleeping, I Dreamt - Marvellous Error! - That It Was God I Had Here Inside My Heart.

The Afternoon Is Bright, With Spring In The Air, A Mild March Afternoon, With The Breath Of April Stirring, I Am Alone In The Quiet Patio Looking For Some Old Untried Illusion - Some Shadow On The Whiteness Of The Wall Some Memory Asleep On The Stone Rim Of The Fountain, Perhaps In The Air The Light Swish Of Some Trailing Gown.

In Order To Write Poetry, You Must First Invent A Poet Who Will Write It.

No One Can Shed Light On Vices He Does Not Have Or Afflictions He Has Ever Experienced.