The Only Way Out Is Through.

But This We Know, The Obstacle That Checked And Tripped The Body, Shot The Spirit On Further Than Target Ever Showed Or Shone.

The Ear Is The Only True Writer And The Only True Reader.

Lovers, Forget Your Love And List To The Love Of These She A Window Flower And He A Winter Breeze.

My Definition Of Poetry (if I Were Forced To Give One) Would Be This: Words That Have Become Deeds.

I'd Like To Go By Climbing A Birch Tree~ And Climb Black Branches Up A Snow-white Trunk Toward Heaven, Till The Tree Could Bear No More, But Dipped Its Top And Set Me Down Again. That Would Be Good Both Going And Coming Back. One Could Do Worse Than Be A Swinger Of Birches.