Give him of your heart or serve him. Nay, we have not lived in vain. Let us not be particular and sectional. The poet's mind and the scorpion's tail rise in glory from the same earth. Every dragon gives birth to a St. George who slays it.
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.
We fell them down and turn them into paper that we may record our emptiness. They dip their pens in our hearts and think they are inspired. Should a tree write its autobiography it would not be unlike the history of a race. If I were to choose between the power of writing a poem and the ecstasy of a poem unwritten, I would choose the ecstasy. It is better poetry.