O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.

The instant trivial as it is is all we have unless-unless things the imagination feeds upon, the scent of the rose, startle us anew.

History, history! We fools, what do we know or care.

In summer, the song sings itself.

I'll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it'll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it.

For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.