Oh, Do Not Ask, 'what Is It?'/let

We Can Say Of Shakespeare, That Never Has A Man Turned So Little Knowledge To Such Great Account.

Accident Is Design / And Design Is Accident / In A Cloud Of Unknowing.

Whatever You Do, Don't Whimper, But Take The Consequences.

Love Is Most Nearly Itself When Here And Now Cease To Matter. Old Men Ought To Be Explorers Here Or There Does Not Matter We Must Be Still And Still Moving Into Another Intensity For A Further Union, A Deeper Communion Through The Dark Cold And The Empty Desolation, The Wave Cry, The Wind Cry, The Vast Waters Of The Petrel And The Porpoise.

And Would It Have Been Worth It, After All, Would It Have Been Worth While, After The Sunsets And The Dooryards And The Sprinkled Streets, After The Novels, After The Teacups, After The Skirts That Trail Along The Floor - And This, And So Much More? -