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A writer is congenitally unable to tell the truth and that is why we call what he writes fiction. - William Faulkner

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Warmth and light, buzzing bumblebees, wheat ears and grasses,
Azure skies - of high summer the birth...
To his prodigal son will the Lord say: "Confess, pray -
Have you known true contentment on earth?"

And forgetting all else save the golden and endless
Fields of wheat, the sereneness and peace,
I will weep, and, my words choked by sweet tears of gladness,
Thankful fall at those merciful knees.

1918