Humankind Cannot Stand Reality.

Love Is Most Nearly Itself When Here And Now Cease To Matter.

The Nightingales Are Singing Near The Convent Of The Sacred Heart, And Sang Within The Bloody Wood When Agamemnon Cried Aloud, And Let Their Liquid Siftings Fall To Stain The Stiff Dishonored Shroud.

Not Less Of Love, But Expanding Of Love Beyond Desire, And So Liberation From The Future As Well As The Past.

The True Church Can Never Fail. For It Is Based Upon A Rock.

Here Were Decent Godless People; Their Only Monument The Asphalt Road And A Thousand Lost Golf Balls.