They Lay On Their Heathery Beds And Listened To All The Sounds Of The Night. They Heard The Little Grunt Of A Hedgehog Going By. They Saw The Flicker Of Bats Overhead. They Smelt The Drifting Scent Of Honeysuckle, And The Delicious Smell Of Wild Thyme Crushed Under Their Bodies. A Reed-warbler Sang A Beautiful Little Song In The Reeds Below, And Then Another Answered.
Some People Can't Go Into Church Any Longer To Feel This Longing, But They Still Have The Longing, So What Do They Do? Well, One Thing You Can Do Is What People Do In Prison; They Turn To Poetry.
The Dead Made This World. We Didn't Make It. They Made The Poetry And The Songs And The Customs.
Rumi Is Astounding, Fertile, Abundant, Almost More An Excitable Library Of Poetry Than A Person.
Some Men Live With An Invisible Limp, Stagger, Or Drag A Leg. Their Sons Are Often Angry.
I Have Daughters And I Have Sons./when One Of Them Lays A Hand/on My Shoulder, Shining Fish/turn Suddenly In The Deep Sea.
The World Belongs Primarily To The Dead, And We Only Rent It From Them For A Little While. They Created It, They Wrote Its Literature And Its Songs, And They Are Deeply Invested In How Children Are Treated, Because The Children Are The Ones Who Will Keep It Going. The Idea That Each Of Us Has The Right To Change Everything Is A Deep Insult To Them.
Every Part Of Our Personality That We Do Not Love Will Become Hostile To Us.
They Were Being Driven To A Prison, Through No Fault Of Their Own, In All Probability For Life. In Comparison, How Much Easier It Would Be To Walk To The Gallows Than To This Tomb Of Living Horrors!
I Had Never Been Near Insane Persons Before In My Life, And Had Not The Faintest Idea Of What Their Actions Were Like
I Write Songs About My Own Experiences. You Can't Lie To Yourself. You Can't Pose To Yourself.
