The Artist In Me Cries Out For

Some Say The World Will End In Fire, Some Say In Ice.

But He Had Gone His Way, The Grass All Mown, And I Must Be, As He Had Been - Alone, As All Must Be, I Said Within My Heart, Whether They Work Together Or Apart.

In Spring More Mortal Singers Than Belong To Any One Place Cover Us With Song. Thrush, Bluebird, Blackbird, Sparrow, And Robin Throng.

I'm Not Confused. I'm Just Well Mixed.

And Nothing To Look Backward To With Pride, And Nothing To Look Forward To With Hope.