Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.47

From Email:	Required Email Address Not Valid.
To Email:	Email Address Not Valid. Required
Subject	Required
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem	This is the grass your feet are planted on. You paint it orange or you sing it green, But you have never found A way to make the grass mean what you mean. A cloud can be whatever you intend: Ostrich or leaning tower or staring eye. But you have never found A cloud sufficient to express the sky. Get out there with your splendid expertise; Raymond who cuts the meadow does not less. Inhuman nature says: Inhuman patience is the true success. Human impatience trips you as you run; Stand still and you must lie. It is the grass that cuts the mower down; It is the cloud that swallows up the sky.
	Type the characters you see in the picture Required