The Afternoon Knows What The

The Only Way Out Is To Go Through

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

So Was I Once Myself A Swinger Of Birches. And So I Dream Of Going Back To Be.

Nothing Flatters Me More Than To Have It Assumed That I Could Write Prose, Unless It Be To Have It Assumed That I Once Pitched A Baseball With Distinction.

Some Say The World Will End In Fire, Some Say In Ice. From What I've Tasted Of Desire, I Hold With Those Who Favor Fire. But If It Had To Perish Twice I Think I Know Enough Of Hate To Say That For Destruction Ice Is Also Great And Would Suffice.