One Gets To The Heart Of The

I Don't Really Feel My Poems Are Mine At All. I Didn't Create Them Out Of Nothing. I Owe Them To My Relations With Other People.

Truth-loving Persians Do Not Dwell Upon The Trivial Skirmish Fought Near Marathon.

Hate Is A Fear, And Fear Is Rot That Cankers Root And Fruit Alike, Fight Cleanly Then, Hate Not, Fear Not, Strike With No Madness When You Strike.

What We Now Call "finance" Is, I Hold, An Intellectual Perversion Of What Began As Warm Human Love.

Love Is Universal Migraine, A Bright Stain On The Vision Blotting Out Reason. Symptoms Of True Love Are Leanness, Jealousy, Laggard Dawns; Are Omens And Nightmares - Listening For A Knock, Waiting For A Sign: For A Touch Of Her Fingers In A Darkened Room, For A Searching Look. Take Courage, Lover! Could You Endure Such Pain At Any Hand But Hers?