A Poem Should Not Mean But Be.

The Perversion Of The Mind Is Only Possible When Those Who Should Be Heard In Its Defence Are Silent.

Autumn Is The American Season. In Europe The Leaves Turn Yellow Or Brown, And Fall. Here They Take Fire On The Trees And Hang There Flaming. We Think This Frost-fire Is A Portent Somehow: A Promise That The Continent Has Given Us. Life, Too, We Think, Is Capable Of Taking Fire In This Country; Of Creating Beauty Never Seen.

Children Know The Grace Of God Better Than Most Of Us. They See The World The Way The Morning Brings It Back To Them; New And Born And Fresh And Wonderful.

Spring Has Many American Faces. There Are Cities Where It Will Come And Go In A Day And Counties Where It Hangs Around And Never Quite Gets There. Summer Is Drawn Blinds In Louisiana, Long Winds In Wyoming, Shade Of Elms And Maples In New England.

If The Art Of Poetry Is?the Art Of Making Sense Of The Chaos Of Human Experience, It's Not A Bad Thing To See A Lot Of Chaos.