For You Know Only A Heap Of

Cling, Swing, Spring, Sing, Swing Up Into The Apple Tree.

Love Is Most Nearly Itself When Here And Now Cease To Matter. Old Men Ought To Be Explorers Here Or There Does Not Matter We Must Be Still And Still Moving Into Another Intensity For A Further Union, A Deeper Communion Through The Dark Cold And The Empty Desolation, The Wave Cry, The Wind Cry, The Vast Waters Of The Petrel And The Porpoise.

Only Those Who Will Risk Going Too Far Can Possibly Find Out How Far One Can Go.

It's Harder To Confess The Sin That No One Believes In Than The Crime That Everyone Can Appreciate. For The Crime Is In Relation To The Law And The Sin Is In Relation To The Sinner.

The More Perfect The Artist, The More Completely Separate In Him Will Be The Man Who Suffers And The Mind Which Creates.