Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.

History is a living horse laughing at a wooden horse. History is a wind blowing where it listeth. History is no sure thing to bet on. History is a box of tricks with a lost key. History is a labyrinth of doors with sliding panels, a book of ciphers with the code in a cave of the Saragossa sea. History says, if it pleases, Excuse me, I beg your pardon, it will never happen again if I can help it.

Revolt and terror pay a price. Order and law have a cost.

I take you and pile high the memories. Death will break her claws on some I keep.

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?

I learned you can't trust the judgment of good friends.

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.