Above the Dock
Above the quiet dock in midnight,
Tangled in the tall mast’s corded height,
Hangs the moon. What seemed so far away
Is but a child’s balloon, forgotten after play.
Seek simplicity and distrust it.
The man who insists on seeing with perfect clearness before he decides, never decides.
Style is not something applied. It is something that permeates. It is of the nature of that in which it…