Hate Is Ravening Vulture Beaks Descending On

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

How Loud Clocks Can Tick When A Room Is Empty, And One Is Alone!

Everything Mortal Has Moments Immortal

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

Poets Are Always The Advance Guard Of Literature; The Advance Guard Of Life. It Is For This Reason That Their Recognition Comes So Slowly.