I Think I Hate Snow,

When We Begin To Take Our Failures Non-seriously, It Means We Are Ceasing To Be Afraid Of Them.

Isn't Life,' She Stammered, 'isn't Life--' But What Life Was She Couldn't Explain. No Matter. He Quite Understood. 'isn't It, Darling?' Said Laurie.

Ach, Tchekov! Why Are You Dead? Why Can’t I Talk To You In A Big Darkish Room At Late Evening—where The Light Is Green From The Waving Trees Outside? I’d Like To Write A Series Of Heavens: That Would Be One.

Outside The Sky Is Light With Stars

But The More Poetry One Reads The More One Longs To Read!