A Poet Never Takes Notes. You Never

What You Want, What You're Hanging Around In The World Waiting For, Is For Something To Occur To You.

But What Would Interest You About The Brook, It's Always Cold In Summer, Warm In Winter.

To Time It Never Seems That He Is Brave To Set Himself Against The Peaks Of Snow To Lay Them Level With The Running Wave, Nor Is He Overjoyed When They Lie Low, But Only Grave, Contemplative And Grave.

I End Not Far From My Going Forth By Picking The Faded Blue Of The Last Remaining Aster Flower To Carry Again To You.

If The Day Ever Comes When They Know Who They Are, They May Know Better Where They Are.