Though Philosophers Like To Define

Strawberries That In Gardens Grow Are Plump And Juicy Fine, But Sweeter Far As Wise Men Know Spring From The Woodland Vine. No Need For Bowl Or Silver Spoon, Sugar Or Spice Or Cream, Has The Wild Berry Plucked In June Beside The Trickling Stream. One Such To Melt At The Tongue's Root, Confounding Taste With Scent, Beats A Full Peck Of Garden Fruit: Which Points My Argument.

Kaisers And Czars Will Strut The Stage Once More With Pomp And Greed And Rage; Courtly Ministers Will Stop At Home And Fight To The Last Drop; By The Million Men Will Die In Some New Horrible Agony.

But Give Thanks, At Least, That You Still Have Frost's Poems; And When You Feel The Need Of Solitude, Retreat To The Companionship Of Moon, Water, Hills And Trees. Retreat, He Reminds Us, Should Not Be Confused With Escape. And Take These Poems Along For Good Luck!

Nine-tenths Of English Poetic Literature Is The Result Either Of Vulgar Careerism Or Of A Poet Trying To Keep His Hand In. Most Poets Are Dead By Their Late Twenties.

I Don't Really Feel My Poems Are Mine At All. I Didn't Create Them Out Of Nothing. I Owe Them To My Relations With Other People.