One Is Always Nearer By Not Keeping

As Humans We Look At Things And Think About What We've Looked At. We Treasure It In A Kind Of Private Art Gallery.

The Painter Saw What Was, An Alternate Candor And Secrecy Inside The Skin.

I Deliberately Wrote A Poem In My Last Book Where I Was Suggesting That There Are Other Passions As Great As Or More Important Than The Passion Of Sex.

How Sociable The Garden Was. We Ate And Talked In Given Light. The Children Put Their Toys To Grass All The Warm Wakeful August Night.

Much That Is Natural, To The Will Must Yield. Men Manufacture Both Machine And Soul, And Use What They Imperfectly Control To Dare A Future From The Taken Routes.