I Cried Over Beautiful Things, Knowing No

Poetry Is The Capture Of A Picture, A Song, Or A Flair, In A Deliberate Prism Of Words.

Corn Wind In The Fall, Come Off The Black Lands, Come Off The Whisper Of The Silk Hangers, The Lap Of The Flat Spear Leaves.

We Read Robert Browning's Poetry. Here We Needed No Guidance From The Professor: The Poems Themselves Were Enough.

I Knew I Would Read All Kinds Of Books And Try To Get At What It Is That Makes Good Writers Good. But I Made No Promises That I Would Write Books A Lot Of People Would Like To Read.

A Tough Will Counts. So Does Desire.so Does A Rich Soft Wanting.without Rich Wanting Nothing Arrives.