Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams

... Let the cage bird and the cage bird mate and the wild bird mate in the wild.

Time can but make her beauty over again.

THAT crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found. No matter what disaster occurred She stood in desperate music wound, Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph Where the bales and the baskets lay No common intelligible sound But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea

It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.