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.

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

By the way, a gendarme assured me this is not a prison.

The symbol of all art is the Prism. The goal is unrealism. The method is destructive. To break up the white light of objective realism, into the secret glories which it contains.

...losing through you what seemed myself, i find selves unimaginably mine; beyond sorrow's own joys and hopings very fears yours is the light by which my spirit's born: yours is the darkness of my soul's return... you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.

I love you much most beautiful darling more than anyone on the earth and I like you better than everything in the sky.

Here's to opening and upward... and to yourself and up with you and up with and up with laughing.