Adventure-seasoned And Storm-buffeted, I Shun All Signs

I Have Forgotten Much, But Still Remember The Poinsiana's Red, Blood-red In Warm December.

We Are Like Trees. We Wear All Colors Naturally.

Adventure-seasoned And Storm-buffeted, I Shun All Signs Of Anchorage, Because The Zest Of Life Exceeds The Bound Of Laws.

Upon The Clothes Behind The Tenement, That Hang Like Ghosts Suspended From The Lines, Linking Each Flat, But To Each Indifferent, Incongruous And Strange The Moonlight Shines.

Nations, Like Plants And Human Beings, Grow. And If The Development Is Thwarted They Are Dwarfed And Overshadowed.