I Never Feel More At Home Than

The Rose Is A Rose, And Was Always A Rose. But The Theory Now Goes That The Apple's A Rose, And The Pear Is, And So's The Plum, I Suppose. The Dear Only Knows What Will Next Prove A Rose. You, Of Course, Are A Rose - But Were Always A Rose.

All Thought Is A Feat Of Association; Having What's In Front Of You Bring Up Something In Your Mind That You Almost Didn't Know You Knew

The Tree The Tempest With A Crash Of Wood Throws Down In Front Of Us Is Not To Bar Our Passage To Our Journey's End For Good, But Just To Ask Us Who We Think We Are.

When The Spent Sun Throws Up Its Rays On Cloud And Goes Down Burning Into The Gulf Below, No Voice In Nature Is Heard To Cry Aloud At What Has Happened. Birds, At Least Must Know It Is The Change To Darkness In The Sky. Murmuring Something Quiet In Her Breast, One Bird Begins To Close A Faded Eye; Or Overtaken Too Far From His Nest, Hurrying Low Above The Grove, Some Waif Swoops Just In Time To His Remembered Tree. At Most He Thinks Or Twitters Softly, 'safe! Now Let The Night Be Dark For All Of Me. Let The Night Be Too Dark For Me To See Into The Future. Let What Will Be, Be.

The Mind-is Not The Heart. I May Yet Live, As I Know Others Live, To Wish In Vain To Let Go With The Mind- Of Cares, At Night, To Sleep; But Nothing Tells Me That I Need Learn To Let Go With The Heart.