I Love Forms Beyond My Own, And

Since The First Human Eye Saw A Leaf In Devonian Sandstone And A Puzzled Finger Reached To Touch It, Sadness Has Lain Over The Heart Of Man. By This Tenuous Thread Of Living Protoplasm, Stretching Backward Into Time, We Are Linked Forever To Lost Beaches Whose Sands Have Long Since Hardened Into Stone. The Stars That Caught Our Blind Amphibian Stare Have Shifted Far Or Vanished In Their Courses, But Still That Naked, Glistening Thread Winds Onward. No One Knows The Secret Of Its Beginning Or Its End. Its Forms Are Phantoms. The Thread Alone Is Real; The Thread Is Life.

The Need Is Not Really For More Brains, The Need Is Now For A Gentler, A More Tolerant People Than Those Who Won For Us Against The Ice, The Tiger And The Bear. The Hand That Hefted The Ax, Out Of Some Old Blind Allegiance To The Past Fondles The Machine Gun As Lovingly. It Is A Habit Man Will Have To Break To Survive, But The Roots Go Very Deep.

Tomorrow Lurks In Us, The Latency To Be All That Was Not Achieved Before.

The Great Artist, Whether He Be Musician, Painter, Or Poet, Is Known For This Absolute Unexpectedness.

Once In A Lifetime, Perhaps, One Escapes The Actual Confines Of The Flesh. Once In A Lifetime, If One Is Lucky, One So Merges With Sunlight And Air And Running Water That Whole Eons, The Eons That Mountains And Deserts Know, Might Pass In A Single Afternoon Without Discomfort.