In haste we fail to see the breath of God upon the bark of the tree, the wings of a bird. In the spaces between the voice of the forests far away from city noise you can hear them laugh. The spirits find us charming. Expect no less and you'll never be disappointed. And transport to another, better place.
Poets are creatures of disillusion.
And the words which are tears. Poets don't cry, folks, never. Run fast, run far, dig your hole and hide deeply in it. Words that hang in the air, Words between you and I, Words we'll always remember, folks, But not the poet. The poet has dried his tears.