My Love Is Selfish. I Cannot Breathe

The Genius Of Poetry Must Work Out Its Own Salvation In A Man; It Cannot Be Matured By Law And Precept, But By Sensation And Watchfulness In Itself. That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

I Have Nothing To Speak Of But My Self-and What Can I Say But What I Feel.

And When Thou Art Weary I'll Find Thee A Bed, Of Mosses And Flowers To Pillow Thy Head.

Feeling Well That Breathed Words Would All Be Lost, Unheard, And Vain As Swords Against The Enchased Crocodile, Or Leaps Of Grasshoppers Against The Sun.

Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water.