Poetry is engendered in solitude, so what better meter for it than the clip of a buckskin horse?

If a person sings quietly to himself on the street people smile with approval; but if he talks it's not alright; they think he's crazy. The singer is presumed to be happy and the talker unhappy.

True solitude is a din of birdsong, seething leaves, whirling colors, or a clamor of tracks in the snow.

There aren't many irritations to match the condescension which a woman metes out to a man who she believes has loved her vainly for the past umpteen years.

It would be hard to define chaos better than as a world where children decide they don't want to live.

No birdcall is the musical equal of a clarinet blown with panache.

Our loneliness makes us avid column readers these days.