Art is a mystery. A mystery is something immeasurable.
Whatever's merely willful, and not miraculous (be never it so skilful) must wither fail and cease - but better than to grow beauty knows no.
Always itโs Spring)and everyoneโs in love and flowers pick themselves.
The whole truth... sings only - and all lovers are the song.
The eyes of my eyes are opened.
yes is a world & in this world of yes live (skilfully curled) all worlds