Winter Solitude- In A World Of One

Spring Rain Conveyed Under The Trees In Drops.

With Every Gust Of Wind, The Butterfly Changes Its Place On The Willow.

On A Bare Branch A Crow Is Perched - Autumn Evening

In This Poor Body, Composed Of One Hundred Bones And Nine Openings, Is Something Called Spirit, A Flimsy Curtain Swept This Way And That By The Slightest Breeze. It Is Spirit, Such As It Is, Which Led Me To Poetry, At First Little More Than A Pastime, Then The Full Business Of My Life. There Have Been Times When My Spirit, So Dejected, Almost Gave Up The Quest, Other Times When It Was Proud, Triumphant. So It Has Been From The Very Start, Never Finding Peace With Itself, Always Doubting The Worth Of What It Makes.

The Sea Darkens And A Wild Duck S Call Is Faintly White.