The Key To All Strange

Give But A Grain Of The Heart's Rich Seed, Confine Some Under Cover, And When Love Goes, Bid Him God-speed. And Find Another Lover.

Whatever Lives Is Granted Breath But By The Grace And Sufferance Of Death.

My Poetry Has Become The Way Of My Giving Out What Music Is Within Me.

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set

We Were Not Made To Eternally Weep.