Not For The Flag Of

That Is My Being, The Madness Of An Unaccustomed Mood.

This Book, When I Am Dead, Will Be A Little Faint Perfume Of Me. People Who Knew Me Well Will Say, She Really Used To Think That Way.

To A Young Poet Time Cannot Break The Bird's Wing From The Bird. Bird And Wing Together Go Down, One Feather. No Thing That Ever Flew, Not The Lark, Not You, Can Die As Others Do.

Time Does Not Bring Relief; You All Have Lied Who Told Me Time Would Ease Me Of My Pain! I Miss Him In The Weeping Of The Rain; I Want Him At The Shrinking Of The Tide; The Old Snows Melt From Every Mountain-side, And Last Year's Leaves Are Smoke In Every Lane; But Last Year's Bitter Loving Must Remain Heaped On My Heart, And My Old Thoughts Abide! There Are A Hundred Places Where I Fear To Go,--so With His Memory They Brim! And Entering With Relief Some Quiet Place Where Never Fell His Foot Or Shone His Face I Say, 'there Is No Memory Of Him Here!' And So Stand Stricken, So Remembering Him!

When You Publish Something, It Is Very Much As If You Pulled Your Pants Down In Public. If What You Have Written Is Good, Nobody Can Hurt You; If What You Have Written Is Bad, Nobody Can Help You.