It Is Clear That We Do Not

In A Total Work, The Failures Have Their Not Unimportant Place.

Joy, Happiness ... We Do Not Question. They Are Beyond Question, Maybe. A Matter Of Being. But Pain Forces Us To Think, And To Make Connections ... To Discover What Has Been Happening To Cause It. And, Curiously Enough, Pain Draws Us To Other Human Beings In A Significant Way, Whereas Joy Or Happiness To Some Extent, Isolates.

It Is Clear That We Do Not Exactly Choose Our Poems; Our Poems Choose Us.

So This Was Fame At Last! Nothing But A Vast Debt To Be Paid To The World In Energy, Blood, And Time.

True Gardeners Cannot Bear A Glove Between The Sure Touch And The Tender Root.