Never Touch A Butterfly's Wing With Your

To A Poet, Silence Is An Acceptable Response, Even A Flattering One.

A Few Days Later, I Found My Mother Beneath The Tree, Motionless With Excitement, Her Head Turned Toward The Heavens In Which She Would Allow Human Religions No Place.

Look For A Long Time At What Pleases You, And A Longer Time At What Pains You.

There Are Days When Solitude, For Someone My Age, Is A Heady Wine That Intoxicates You With Freedom, Others When It Is A Bitter Tonic, And Still Others When It Is A Poison That Makes You Beat Your Head Against The Wall.

My True Friends Have Always Given Me That Supreme Proof Of Devotion, A Spontaneous Aversion For The Man I Loved.