You Can Be A Little

When I Was Young My Teachers Were The Old. I Gave Up Fire For Form Till I Was Cold.

College Is A Refuge From Hasty Judgment.

I Fail To See What Fun, What Satisfaction / A God Can Find In Laughing At How Badly / Men Fumble At The Possibilities.

Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know. His House Is In The Village Though; He Will Not See Me Stopping Here To Watch His Woods Fill Up With Snow.

A Bird Half Wakened In The Lunar Noon Sang Halfway Through Its Little Inborn Tune.