Mediocre Writers Borrow; Great Writers Steal.

Till Human Voices Wake Us, And We Drown.

The Circle Of Our Understanding Is A Very Restricted Area.

The Nightingales Are Singing Near The Convent Of The Sacred Heart, And Sang Within The Bloody Wood When Agamemnon Cried Aloud, And Let Their Liquid Siftings Fall To Stain The Stiff Dishonored Shroud.

These Fragments I Have Shored Against My Ruins

With A Poem You Can Say 'i Got My Feeling Into Words For Myself. I Now Have The Equivalent In Words For That Much Of What I Have Felt.'