Without Poetry The Soul And

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.

When Trying To Explain Anything, I Usually Find That The Bible, That Great Collection Of Magnificent And Varied Poetry, Has Said It Before In The Best Possible Way.

This Is America, This Vast, Confused Beauty, This Staring, Restless Speed Of Loveliness, Mighty, Overwhelming, Crude, Of All Forms, Making Grandeur Out Of Profusion, Afraid Of No Incongruities, Sublime In Its Audacity, Bizarre Breaker Of Moulds.

When You Came, You Were Like Red Wine And Honey, And The Taste Of You Burnt My Mouth With Its Sweetness.

Everything Mortal Has Moments Immortal