I Dwell In Possiblities.

If Fame Belonged To Me, I Could Not Escape Her; If She Did Not, The Longest Day Would Pass Me On The Chase, And The Approbation Of My Dog Would Forsake Me.

As Summer Into Autumn Slips And Yet We Sooner Say "the Summer" Than "the Autumn," Lest We Turn The Sun Away, And Almost Count It An Affront The Presence To Concede Of One However Lovely, Not The One That We Have Loved - So We Evade The Charge Of Years On One Attempting Shy The Circumvention Of The Shaft Of Life's Declivity.

I . . . Am Small, Like The Wren, And My Hair Is Bold Like The Chestnut Burr; And My Eyes Like The Sherry In The Glass That The Guest Leaves.

You Cannot Fold A Flood And Put It In A Drawer, Because The Winds Would Find It Out And Tell Your Cedar Floor.

A Dominie In Gray-- Put Gently Up The Evening Bars-- And Led The Flock Away