What An Exciting Age It Is We

Love Is An Irresistible Desire To Be Irresistibly Desired.

God Turned To Speak To Me (don't Anybody Laugh); God Found I Wasn't There At Least Not Over Half.

Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation.

My Sorrow, When She's Here With Me, Thinks These Dark Days Of Autumn Rain Are Beautiful As Days Can Be; She Loves The Bare, The Withered Tree; She Walks The Sodden Pasture Lane.

And Of Course There Must Be Something Wrong In Wanting To Silence Any Song.