Poetry Is An Exhibit Of

There Is A Wolf In Me... - I Keep This Wolf Because The Wilderness Gave It To Me And The Wilderness Will Not Let It Go.

His Books Were Part Of Him. Each Year Of His Life, It Seemed, His Books Became More And More A Part Of Him. This Room, Thirty By Twenty Feet, And The Walls Of Shelves Filled With Books, Had For Him The Murmuring Of Many Voices. In The Books Of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, And Scores Of Others, He Had Found Men Of Face And Voice More Real To Him Than Many A Man He Had Met For A Smoke And A Talk.

My Room For Books And Study Or For Sitting And Thinking About Nothing In Particular To See What Would Happen Was At The End Of A Hall.

Corn Wind In The Fall, Come Off The Black Lands, Come Off The Whisper Of The Silk Hangers, The Lap Of The Flat Spear Leaves.

You Remember Some Bedrooms You Have Slept In. There Are Bedrooms You Like To Remember And Others You Would Like To Forget.