This Race And This Country And This

Fall If You Will, But Rise You Must.

For The Years, He Felt, Had Not Quenched His Soul, Or Hers.

It Soared, A Bird, It Held Its Flight, A Swift Pure Cry, Soar Silver Orb It Leaped Serene, Speeding, Sustained, To Come, Don't Spin It Out Too Long Long Breath He Breath Long Life, Soaring High, High Resplendent, Aflame, Crowned, High In The Effulgence Symbolistic, High, Of The Ethereal Bosom, High, Of The High Vast Irradiation Everywhere All Soaring All Around About The All, The Endlessnessnessness.

The Object Of The Artist Is The Creation Of The Beautiful. What The Beautiful Is Is Another Question.

Civilization May Be Said Indeed To Be The Creation Of Its Outlaws.