An Unshared Happiness Is Not Happiness.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

Poetry Is A Rich, Full-bodied Whistle, Cracked Ice Crunching In Pails, The Night That Numbs The Leaf, The Duel Of Two Nightingales, The Sweet Pea That Has Run Wild, Creation's Tears In Shoulder Blades.

No Single Man Makes History. History Cannot Be Seen, Just As One Cannot See Grass Growing. Wars And Revolutions, Kings And Robespierres, Are History's Organic Agents, Its Yeast. But Revolutions Are Made By Fanatical Men Of Action With One-track Mind, Geniuses In Their Ability To Confine Themselves To A Limited Field. They Overturn The Old Order In A Few Hours Or Days, The Whole Upheaval Takes A Few Weeks Or At Most Years, But The Fanatical Spirit That Inspired The Upheavals Is Worshiped For Decades Thereafter, For Centuries.

Work Is The Order Of The Day, Just As It Was At One Time, With Our First Starts And Our Best Efforts. Do You Remember? Therein Lies Its Delight. It Brings Back The Forgotten; One's Stores Of Energy, Seemingly Exhausted, Come Back To Life.

Only The Solitary Seek The Truth, And They Break With All Those Who Don't Love It Sufficiently