Poetry Is A Fresh Morning

I Asked The Professors Who Teach The Meaning Of Life To Tell Me What Is Happiness. And I Went To Famous Executives Who Boss The Work Of Thousands Of Men. They All Shook Their Heads And Gave Me A Smile As Though I Was Trying To Fool With Them. And Then One Sunday Afternoon I Wandered Out Along The Desplaines River And I Saw A Crowd Of Hungarians Under The Trees With Their Women And Children And A Keg Of Beer And An Accordion.

I Cried Over Beautiful Things, Knowing No Beautiful Thing Lasts.

Every Blunder Behind Us Is Giving A Cheer For Us, And Only For Those Who Were Willing To Fail Are The Dangers And Splendors Of Life.

Tell No Man Anything, For No Man Listens Yet Hold Thy Lips Ready To Speak.

Poetry Is A Phantom Script Telling How Rainbows Are Made And Why They Go Away.