I have no silver-saddled horse to ride, no inheritance to live on, neither riches no real-estate -- a pot of honey is all I own. A pot of honey red as fire!

My honey is my everything. I guard my riches and my real-estate -- my honey pot, I mean -- from pests of every species, Brother, just wait... As long as I've got honey in my pot, bees will come to it from Timbuktu...

Out of a hundred people

those who always know better --fifty-two

doubting every step --nearly all the rest,

glad to lend a hand if it doesn't take too long --as high as forty-nine,

always good because they can't be otherwise --four, well maybe five,

able to admire without envy --eighteen,

suffering illusions induced by fleeting youth --sixty, give or take a few,

not to be taken lightly --forty and four,

living in constant fear of someone or something --seventy-seven,

capable of happiness --twenty-something tops,

harmless singly, savage in crowds --half at least,

cruel when forced by circumstances --better not to know even ballpark figures,

wise after the fact --just a couple more than wise before it,

taking only things from life --thirty (I wish I were wrong),

hunched in pain, no flashlight in the dark --eighty-three sooner or later,

righteous --thirty-five, which is a lot,

righteous and understanding --three,

worthy of compassion --ninety-nine,

mortal -- a hundred out of a hundred. thus far this figure still remains unchanged.

[ A ] Long ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood By a dirt road, in first dark, and heard The great geese hoot northward. I could not see them, there being no moon And the stars sparse. I heard them. I did not know what was happening in my heart. It was the season before the elderberry blooms, Therefore they were going north. The sound was passing northward.

[ B ] Tell me a story. In this century, and moment, of mania, Tell me a story. Make it a story of great distances, and starlight. The name of the story will be Time, But you must not pronounce its name. Tell me a story of deep delight.