My! Ain't Men Blinder'n Moles?

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

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

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of Man Starves And Dies.

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