One Age Is Like Another

To Be A Poet Is A Condition, Not A Profession.

What Is This Talked-of Mystery Of Birth. But Being Mounted Bareback On The Earth?

The Test Is Always How We Treat The Poor.

When A Friend Calls To Me From The Road And Slows His Horse To A Meaning Walk, I Don't Stand Still And Look Around On All The Hills I Haven't Hoed, And Shout From Where I Am, What Is It? No, Not As There Is A Time To Talk. I Thrust My Hoe In The Mellow Ground, Blade-end Up And Five Feet Tall, And Plod: I Go Up To The Stone Wall For A Friendly Visit.

I Am A Writer Of Books In Retrospect. I Talk In Order To Understand; I Teach In Order To Learn.