They Slipped Briskly Into An Intimacy From

That Voice Was A Deathless Song.

He Wanted People To Like His Mind Again-after Awhile It Might Be Such A Nice Place In Which To Live.

Writing Is Eternal, For Therein The Dead Heart Liveth, The Clay-cold Tongue Is Eloquent, And The Quick Eye Of The Reader Is Cleared By The Reed Of The Scribe. As A Fossil In The Rock, Or A Coin In The Mortar Of A Ruin, So The Symbolled Thoughts Tell Of A Departed Soul: The Plastic Hand Hath Its Witness In A Statue, And Exactitude Of Vision In A Picture, And So, The Mind, That Was Among Us, In Its Writings Is Embalmed.

Over The Great Bridge, With The Sunlight Through The Girders Making A Constant Flicker Upon The Moving Cars, With The City Rising Up Across The River In White Heaps And Sugar Lumps All Built With A Wish Out Of Non-olfactory Money. The City Seen From The Queensboro Bridge Is Always The City Seen For The First Time, In Its First Wild Promise Of All The Mystery And The Beauty In The World.

It's A Great Advantage Not To Drink Among Hard-drinking People. You Can Hold Your Tongue, And, Moreover, You Can Time Any Little Irregularity Of Your Own So That Everybody Else Is So Blind That They Don't See Or Care.