Being, Not Doing, Is My First Joy.

Live In A Perpetual Great Astonishment.

In A Dark Time, The Mind Begins To See.

All Finite Things Reveal Infinitude: The Mountain With Its Singular Bright Shade Like The Blue Shine On Freshly Frozen Snow, The After-light Upon Ice-burdened Pines; Odor Of Basswood Upon A Mountain Slope, A Scene Beloved Of Bees; Silence Of Water Above A Sunken Tree: The Pure Serene Of Memory Of One Man,- A Ripple Widening From A Single Stone Winding Around The Waters Of The World.

In Our Age, If A Boy Or Girl Is Untalented, The Odds Are In Favor Of Their Thinking They Want To Write.

I Am Overwhelmed By The Beautiful Disorder Of Poetry, The Eternal Virginity Of Words.