The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.

Life is tons of discipline.

Nature does not complete things. She is chaotic. Man must finish, and he does so by making a garden and building a wall.

It's God - I recognised him from Blake's picture.

What are we? Young or new? We must be something.

The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.

Unless you are educated in metaphor, you are not safe to be let loose in the world.