Home Is The Place Where, When You

Nature Is Always Hinting At Us.

Such Heaps Of Broken Glass To Sweep Away / You'd Think The Inner Dome Of Heaven Had Fallen.

Possessing What We Still Were Unpossessed By, Possessed By What We Now No More Possessed.

What We Live By We Die By.

It Is Absurd To Think That The Only Way To Tell If A Poem Is Lasting Is To Wait And See If It Lasts. The Right Reader Of A Good Poem Can Tell The Moment It Strikes Him That He Has Taken An Immortal Wound-that He Will Never Get Over It.