Poetry Is A Very Complex

Use No Word That Under Stress Of Emotion You Could Not Actually Say.

Man Is An Over-complicated Organism. If He Is Doomed To Extinction He Will Die Out For Want Of Simplicity.

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.

The What Is So Much More Important Than How.

I Desired My Dust To Be Mingled With Yours Forever And Forever And Forever.