Poetry Is A Rich, Full-bodied Whistle, Cracked

Art Has Two Constant, Two Unending Concerns: It Always Meditates On Death And Thus Always Creates Life. All Great, Genuine Art Resembles And Continues The Revelation Of St John.

Farewell, My Great One, My Own, Farewell, My Pride, Farewell, My Swift, Deep, Dear River, How I Loved Your Daylong Splashing, How I Loved To Plunge Into Your Cold Waves.

And When The War Broke Out, Its Real Horrors, Its Real Dangers, Its Menace Of Real Death Were A Blessing Compared With The Inhuman Reign Of The Lie, And They Brought Relief Because They Broke The Spell Of The Dead Letter.

They Loved Each Other, Not Driven By Necessity, By The "blaze Of Passion" Often Falsely Ascribed To Love. They Loved Each Other Because Everything Around Them Willed It, The Trees And The Clouds And The Sky Over Their Heads And The Earth Under Their Feet.

Even So, One Step From My Grave, I Believe That Cruelty, Spite, The Powers Of Darkness Will In Time Be Crushed By The Spirit Of Light.