The True Church Can Never

It Is A Test (a Positive Test, I Do Not Assert That It Is Always Valid Negatively), That Genuine Poetry Can Communicate Before It Is Understood.

The Wounded Surgeon Plies The Steel That Questions The Distempered Part; Beneath The Bleeding Hands We Feel The Sharp Compassion Of The Healer's Art Resolving The Enigma Of The Fever Chart.

With Cats, Some Say, One Rule Is True: Don't Speak Till You Are Spoken To.

Except For The Point, The Still Point, There Would Be No Dance, And There Is Only The Dance

In Our Rhythm Of Earthly Life We Tire Of Light. We Are Glad When The Day Ends, When The Play Ends; And Ecstasy Is Too Much Pain.