The Sea Is A Collector, Quick To

The Prey Of Fear, He, Always Curtailed, Extinguished, Thwarted By The Dusk, Work Partly Done, Says To The Alternating Blaze, "again The Sun! Anew Each Day; And New And New And New, That Comes Into And Steadies My Soul."

The Hands Are The Heart's Messengers.

I See No Reason For Calling My Work Poetry Except That There Is No Other Category In Which To Put It.

Dürer Would Have Seen A Reason For Living In A Town Like This.

I Wonder What Adam And Eve Think Of It By This Time.