All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

Poetry, Far More Than Fiction, Reveals The Soul Of Humanity.

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

When I Go Away From You The World Beats Dead Like A Slackened Drum.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.