I Remember Little Of The Yukon Or

The Lonely Sunsets Flare Forlorn Down Valleys Dreadly Desolate; The Lonely Mountains Soar In Scorn As Still As Death, As Stern As Fate.

I Have No Doubts That The Devil Grins, As Seas Of Ink I Spatter. Ye Gods, Forgive My “literary” Sins – The Other Kind Don’t Matter.

Our Breath Is Brief, And Being So Let's Make Our Heaven Here Below, And Lavish Kindness As We Go.

The Trails Of The World Be Countless, And Most Of The Trails Be Tried; You Tread On The Heels Of The Many, Till You Come Where The Ways Divide;and One Lies Safe In The Sunlight, And The Other Is Dreary And Wan,but You Look Aslant At The Lone Trail, And The Lone Trail Lures You On.

I Have An Intense Dislike For Artificial Society. In France, One Could Lead A Free Life - To Do What One Wanted To Do Without Interference Or Criticism From One's Neighbors.