What is art but the life upon the larger scale, the higher. When, graduating up in a spiral line of still expanding and ascending gyres, it pushes toward the intense significance of all things, hungry for the infinite?

And each man stands with his face in the light. Of his own drawn sword, ready to do what a hero can.

The flower-girl's prayer to buy roses and pinks, held out in the smoke, like stars by day.

He who breathes deepest lives most.

There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

You're something between a dream and a miracle.

Like to write? Of course, of course I do. I seem to live while I write - it is life, for me.