By Night The Skyscraper Looms In The

Enough Small Empty Boxes Thrown Into A Big Empty Box Fill It Full.

The Buffaloes Are Gone. And Those Who Saw The Buffaloes Are Gone.

His Books Were Part Of Him. Each Year Of His Life, It Seemed, His Books Became More And More A Part Of Him. This Room, Thirty By Twenty Feet, And The Walls Of Shelves Filled With Books, Had For Him The Murmuring Of Many Voices. In The Books Of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, And Scores Of Others, He Had Found Men Of Face And Voice More Real To Him Than Many A Man He Had Met For A Smoke And A Talk.

When I Was Writing Pretty Poor Poetry, This Girl With Midnight Black Hair Told Me To Go On.

Who Else Speaks For The Family Of Man? They Are In Tune And Step With Constellations Of Universal Law.