Art Is Our Defense Against Hysteria And

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.

The Mind Enters Itself, And God The Mind, And One Is One, Free In The Tearing Wind.

The Living All Assemble! What's The Cue?-- Do What The Clumsy Partner Wants To Do!

What We Need Is More People Who Specialize In The Impossible.

Too Much Reality Can Be A Dazzle, A Surfeit;too Close Immediacy An Exhaustion