n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s
The eyes of my eyes are opened.
And still the mad magnificent herald Spring assembles beauty from forgetfulness with the wild trump of April:witchery of sound and odour drives the wingless thing man forth in the bright air.
they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead
may my heart always be open to little birds who are the secrets of living
My advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world - unless you're not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.