As The Eagle Was Killed By The

Where Once Stood The Steadfast Pines, Great, Beautiful, Sweet, My Hand Touched Raw, Moist Stumps. All About Lay Broken Branches, Like The Antlers Of Stricken Deer. The Fragrant, Piled-up Sawdust Swirled And Tumbled About Me. An Unreasoning Resentment Flashed Through Me At The Ruthless Destruction Of The Beauty That I Love.

Serious Harm, I Am Afraid, Has Been Wrought To Our Generation By Fostering The Idea That They Would Live Secure In A Permanent Order Of Things.

My Darkness Has Been Filled With The Light Of Intelligence, And Behold, The Outer Day-lit World Was Stumbling And Groping In Social Blindness.

Museums And Art Stores Are Also Sources Of Pleasure And Inspiration. Doubtless It Will Seem Strange To Many That The Hand Unaided By Sight Can Feel Action, Sentiment, Beauty In The Cold Marble; And Yet It Is True That I Derive Genuine Pleasure From Touching Great Works Of Art. As My Finger Tips Trace Line And Curve, They Discover The Thought And Emotion Which The Artist Has Portrayed.

It Is Certain That I Cannot Always Distinguish My Own Thoughts From Those I Read, Because What I Read Becomes The Very Substance And Text Of My Mind.