Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

Who Else Speaks For The Family Of Man? They Are In Tune And Step With Constellations Of Universal Law.

Lips Half-willing In A Doorway. Lips Half-singing At A Window. Eyes Half-dreaming In The Walls. Feet Half-dancing In A Kitchen. Even The Clocks Half-yawn The Hours And The Farmers Make Half-answers.

Always The Path Of American Destiny Has Been Into The Unknown. Always There Arose Enough Reserves Of Strength, Balances Of Sanity, Portions Of Wisdom To Carry The Nation Through To A Fresh Start With Ever-renewing Vitality.

Let A Joy Keep You. Reach Out Your Hands And Take It When It Runs By.

We Don't Have To Think Up A Title Till We Get The Doggone Book Written.