Writing A Poem Is Discovering.

Man That Is Of Woman Born Is Apt To Be As Vain Has His Mother.

We Disparage Reason. But All The Time It's What We're Most Concerned With. There's Will As Motor And There's Will As Brakes. Reason Is, I Suppose, The Steering Gear.

I Always Entertain Great Hopes.

My Long Two-pointed Ladder's Sticking Through A Tree Toward Heaven Still, And There's A Barrel That I Didn't Fill Beside It, And There May Be Two Or Three Apples I Didn't Pick Upon Some Bough. But I Am Done With Apple-picking Now. Essence Of Winter Sleep Is On The Night, The Scent Of Apples: I Am Drowsing Off.

Trust Him To Have His Bitter Politics Against His Unacquaintances The Rich Who Sleep In Houses Of Their Own, Though Mortgaged. Conservatives, They Don't Know What To Save.