I Dwell In A Lonely

I Was Under Twenty When I Deliberately Put It To Myself One Night After Good Conversation That There Are Moments When We Actually Touch In Talk What The Best Writing Can Only Come Near. The Curse Of Our Book Language Is Not So Much That It Keeps Forever To The Same Set Phrases . . . But That It Sounds Forever With The Same Reading Tones. We Must Go Out Into The Vernacular For Tones That Haven't Been Brought To Book.

He Thought That I Was After Him For A Feather--- The White One In His Tail: Like One Who Takes Everything Said As Personal To Himself.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting.

College Is A Refuge From Hasty Judgment.

I Have Wished A Bird Would Fly Away, And Not Sing By My House All Day; Have Clapped My Hands At Him From The Door When It Seemed As If I Could Bear No More. The Fault Must Partly Have Been In Me. The Bird Was Not To Blame For His Key. And Of Course There Must Be Something Wrong In Wanting To Silence Any Song.