The Reason Why Worry Kills

O Hushed October Morning Mild, Thy Leaves Have Ripened To The Fall; Tomorrow's Wind, If It Be Wild, Should Waste Them All. The Crows Above The Forest Call; Tomorrow They May Form And Go. O Hushed October Morning Mild, Begin The Hours Of This Day Slow. Make The Day Seem To Us Less Brief. Hearts Not Averse To Being Beguiled, Beguile Us In The Way You Know. Release One Leaf At Break Of Day; At Noon Release Another Leaf; One From Our Trees, One Far Away.

A True Sonnet Goes Eight Lines And Then Takes A Turn For Better Or Worse And Goes Six Or Eight Lines More.

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

My Definition Of Poetry (if I Were Forced To Give One) Would Be This: Words That Have Become Deeds.

I Never Dared To Be Radical When Young For Fear It Would Make Me Conservative When Old.