What Time Is It? It Is By

One Pierced Moment Whiter Than The Rest -turning From The Tremendous Lie Of Sleep I Watch The Roses Of The Day Grow Deep.

O Sweet Spontaneous Earth How Often Have The Doting Fingers Of Prurient Philosophers Pinched And Poked Thee ,has The Naughty Thumb Of Science Prodded Thy Beauty .how Often Have Religions Taken Thee Upon Their Scraggy Knees Squeezing And Buffeting Thee That Thou Mightest Conceive Gods (but True To The Incomparable Couch Of Death Thy Rhythmic Lover Thou Answerest Them Only With Spring)

Love Being Such, Or Such, The Normal Corners Of Your Heart Will Never Guess How Much My Wonderful Jealousy Is Dark

The Artist Is Not A Man Who Describes, But A Man Who Feels.

Your Homecoming Will Be My Homecoming