That poetry survived in its formal agencies finally and that prose survived to get something said.
I listened motionless and still And as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more.
To begin, begin.
Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from...
You know, for most of its life bluegrass has had this stigma of being all...
Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!
I like finding that common point between another...
