No Poet, No Artist Of Any Art,

It Is A Test (a Positive Test, I Do Not Assert That It Is Always Valid Negatively), That Genuine Poetry Can Communicate Before It Is Understood.

There's No Vocabulary For Love Within A Family, Love That's Lived In But Not Looked At, Love Within The Light Of Which All Else Is Seen, The Love Within Which All Other Love Finds Speech. This Love Is Silent.

When War Is Not Just It Is Subsequently Justified; So It Becomes Many Things. In Reality, An Unjust War Is Merely Piracy. It Consists Of Piracy, Ego And, More Than Anything, Money. War Is Our Century's Prostitution.

Tradition: How The Vitality Of The Past Enriches The Life Of The Present.

Now That The Lilacs Are In Bloom She Has A Bowl Of Lilacs In Her Room