Money Is Power, Freedom, A Cushion, The

I Want To Do The Right Thing, But Often I Don't Know Just What The Right Thing Is. Every Day I Know I Have Come Short Of What I Would Like To Have Done. Yet As The Years Pass And I See The Very World Itself, With Its Oceans And Mountains And Plains, As Something Unfinished, A Peculiar Little Satisfaction Hunts Out The Corners Of My Heart. Sunsets And Evening Shadows Find Me Regretful At Task's Undone, But Sleep And The Dawn And The Air Of The Morning Touch Me With Freshening Hopes. Strange Things Blow In Through My Window On The Wings Of The Night Wind And I Don't Worry About My Destiny.

And How Should A Beautiful, Ignorant Stream Of Water Know It Heads For An Early Release — Out Across The Desert, Running Toward The Gulf, Below Sea Level, To Murmur Its Lullaby, And See The Imperial Valley Rise Out Of Burning Sand With Cotton Blossoms, Wheat, Watermelons, Roses, How Should It Know?

The Sea Speaks A Language Polite People Never Repeat. It Is A Colossal Scavenger Slang And Has No Respect.

I Have Written Some Poetry That I Don't Understand Myself.

Give Me Hunger, Pain And Want, Shut Me Out With Shame And Failure From Your Doors Of Gold And Fame, Give Me Your Shabbiest, Weariest Hunger! But Leave Me A Little Love.