The Scholars And Poets Of An Earlier

People Lie Because They Don't Remember Clear What They Saw. People Lie Because They Can't Help Making A Story Better Than It Was The Way It Happened.

We Don't Have To Think Up A Title Till We Get The Doggone Book Written.

Under The Summer Roses When The Flagrant Crimson Lurks In The Dusk Of The Wild Red Leaves, Love, With Little Hands, Comes And Touches You With A Thousand Memories, And Asks You Beautiful, Unanswerable Questions.

Poetry Is The Silence And Speech Between A Wet Struggling Root Of A Flower And A Sunlit Blossom Of That Flower.

Lay Me On An Anvil, O God. Beat Me And Hammer Me Into A Steel Spike.