Now the peak of summer's past, the sky is overcast And the love we swore would last for an age seems deceit.

To travel like a bird, lightly to view | Deserts where stone gods founder in the sand, | Ocean embraced in a white sleep with land | To escape time, always to start anew... | Hooded by a dark sense of destination... | Travelers, we're fabric of the road we go We settle, but like feathers on time's flow.

Flying alone! Nothing gives such a sense of mastery over time over mechanism, mastery indeed over space, time, and life itself, as this.

We do not write in order to be understood we write in order to understand.

The poetic myths are dead and the poetic image, which is the myth of the individual, reigns in their stead.