Love Is A Game-yes? I Think It

Poetry, Far More Than Fiction, Reveals The Soul Of Humanity.

Oh! To Be A Flower Nodding In The Sun, Bending, Then Upspringing As The Breezes Run.

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.

All Books Are Either Dreams Or Swords, You Can Cut, Or You Can Drug, With Words.

A Black Cat Among Roses, Phlox, Lilac-misted Under A Quarter Moon, The Sweet Smells Of Heliotrope And Night-scented Stock. The Garden Is Very Still. It Is Dazed With Moonlight, Contented With Perfume.