The Afternoon Knows What The Morning Never

You've Often Heard Me Say - Perhaps Too Often - That Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation. That Little Poem Means Just What It Says And It Says What It Means, Nothing Less But Nothing More.

A Poem Begins In Delight And Ends In Wisdom.

That Day She Put Our Heads Together, Fate Had Her Imagination About Her, Your Head So Much Concerned With Outer, Mine With Inner, Weather.

The Best Way To Hate Is The Worst. 'tis To Find What The Hated Need, Never Mind Of What Actual Worth, And Wipe That Out Of The Earth. Let Them Die Of Unsatisfied Greed.

I Only Hope That When I Am Free, As They Are Free To Go In Quest, Of The Knowledge Beyond The Bounds Of Life, It May Not Seem Better To Me To Rest.