Then Why Did You Tell

Your Feelings Are None Of Your Business.

Nature's Silence Is Its One Remark, And Every Flake Of World Is A Chip Off That Old Mute And Immutable Block.

The Secret Is Not To Write About What You Love Best, But About What You, Alone, Love At All.

The Universe Is Illusion Merely, Not One Speck Of It Real, And We Are Not Only Its Victims, Falling Always Into Or Smashed By A Planet Slung By The Sun-but Also Its Captives, Bound By The Mineral-made Ropes Of Our Senses.

You Can Serve Or You Can Sing, And Wreck Your Heart In Prayer, Working The World's Hard Work.