When i dance I dance when I sleep I skeep yes and when I walk alone in a beautiful orchard if my thoughts drift to far-off matters for some part of the time for some other part i lead them back again to the walk the orchard to the sweetness of this solitude to myself - montaigne Behind the paiting marks and strikes Never living always concieving how to live Perhaps my song of this blessed soul is better sung when my pen is more ready My time with him I can think of no words to say His life seems to me so blessed Is it envy to which I sink when i hear and see truly strife attacks not an artist I think my friend makes living an art a wife of peace Surely I believe that no obstruction brings a stop to the flow of creation unsown in he begat by winds and water whose nature go unstopping Truly he walked and sat on this final farewell truly one is he who for flowers never lose their mystique in smell and vision for whom tea and air and subway never seek in taste The joy of the world can indeed be as great as the sea