It Is Sweet To Think I Was

Under Various Names, I Have Praised Only You, Rivers! You Are Milk And Honey And Love And Death And Dance. From A Spring In Hidden Grottoes, Seeping From Mossy Rocks, Where A Goddess Pours Live Water From A Pitcher, At Clear Streams In The Meadow, Where Rills Murmur Underground, Your Race And My Race Begin, And Amazement, And Quick Passage.

They Used To Pour Millet On Graves Or Poppy Seeds To Feed The Dead Who Would Come Disguised As Birds. I Put This Book Here For You, Who Once Lived So That You Should Visit Us No More.

Evil Grows And Bears Fruit, Which Is Understandable, Because It Has Logic And Probability On Its Side And Also, Of Course, Strength. The Resistance Of Tiny Kernels Of Good, To Which No One Grants The Power Of Causing Far-reaching Consequences, Is Entirely Mysterious, However. Such Seeming Nothingness Not Only Lasts But Contains Within Itself Enormous Energy Which Is Revealed Gradually.

Be Young Forever, Seasons Of The Earth.

Poetry Is News Brought To The Mountains By A Unicorn And An Echo.