Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of

Don’t Ask A Writer What He’s Working On. It’s Like Asking Someone With Cancer On The Progress Of His Disease.

Art Is The Desire Of A Man To Express Himself, To Record The Reactions Of His Personality To The World He Lives In.

This Is America, This Vast, Confused Beauty, This Staring, Restless Speed Of Loveliness, Mighty, Overwhelming, Crude, Of All Forms, Making Grandeur Out Of Profusion, Afraid Of No Incongruities, Sublime In Its Audacity, Bizarre Breaker Of Moulds.

When You Came, You Were Like Red Wine And Honey, And The Taste Of You Burnt My Mouth With Its Sweetness.

Now You Are Come! You Tremble Like A Star Poised Where, Behind Earth's Rim, The Sun Has Set. Your Voice Has Sung Across My Heart, But Numb And Mute, I Have No Tones To Answer.