I Think We Are In Rats’ Alley

A People Without History Is Not Redeemed From Time, For History Is A Pattern Of Timeless Moments.

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.

This Is The Way The World Ends, Not With A Bang, But A Whimper.

Maturing As A Poet Means Maturing As The Whole Man, Experiencing New Emotions Appropriate To One's Age, And With The Same Intensity As The Emotions Of Youth.

All Art Emulates The Condition Of Ritual. That Is What It Comes From And To That It Must Always Return For Nourishment.