The Past Is A Bucket Of Ashes

There Is A Warning Love Sends And The Cost Of It Is Never Written Till Long Afterward.

Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

The Buffaloes Are Gone. And Those Who Saw The Buffaloes Are Gone.

We Live In The Time Of The Colossal Upright Oblong.

I Want To Do The Right Thing, But Often I Don't Know Just What The Right Thing Is. Every Day I Know I Have Come Short Of What I Would Like To Have Done. Yet As The Years Pass And I See The Very World Itself, With Its Oceans And Mountains And Plains, As Something Unfinished, A Peculiar Little Satisfaction Hunts Out The Corners Of My Heart. Sunsets And Evening Shadows Find Me Regretful At Task's Undone, But Sleep And The Dawn And The Air Of The Morning Touch Me With Freshening Hopes. Strange Things Blow In Through My Window On The Wings Of The Night Wind And I Don't Worry About My Destiny.