All Art, In Spite Of The Struggles

Poetry Is Often Generations In Advance Of The Thought Of Its Time.

The Measured Blood Beats Out The Year's Delay.

The Women Rest Their Tired Half-healed Hearts; They Are Almost Well.

Up From The Bronze, I Saw Water Without A Flaw Rush To Its Rest In Air Reach To Its Rest, And Fall.

The Poem Is Always The Last Resort. In It The Poet Makes A World In Little, And Finds Peace, Even Though, Under Complete Focused Emotion, The Evocation Be Far More Bitter Than Reality, Or Far More Lovely.