Everywhere Bees Go Racing With The Hours,

Ambition, Old As Mankind, The Immemorial Weakness Of The Strong.

It Is Dreadful How I Miss You, And Everything That Everybody Says Seems Flat And Stupid.

[on Writing:] The Most Egotistic Of Occupations, And The Most Gratifying While It Lasts.

I Loved You When Love Was Spring, And May, Loved You When Summer Deepened Into June, And Now When Autumn Yellows All The Leaves.

But You, Oh Gardener, Poet That You Be / Though Unaware, Now Use Your Seeds Like Words / And Make Them Lilt With Color Nicely Flung.