The Eye Likes Novelty, But The Ear

Nobody Knows What The Cause Is, Though Some Pretend They Do; It Like Some Hidden Assassin Waiting To Strike At You. Childless Women Get It, And Men When They Retire; It As If There Had To Be Some Outlet For Their Foiled Creative Fire.

In The Deserts Of The Heart Let The Healing Fountain Start.

God May Reduce You On Judgment Day To Tears Of Shame, Reciting By Heart The Poems You Would Have Written, Had Your Life Been Good.

We All Have These Places Where Shy Humiliations Gambol On Sunny Afternoons.

There Was Still Gold And Silver In The Mountains, And Hunger Was A More Immediate Sorrow