I Fail To See What Fun, What

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

Yes, And Even For The Past...that It Will Turn Out To Have Been All Right For What It Was. Something I Can Accept. Mistakes Made By The Self I Had To Be Or Was Not Able To Be.

One Age Is Like Another For The Soul.

The Trees That Have It In Their Pent-up Buds To Darken Nature And Be Summer Woods.

The Poet, As Everyone Knows, Must Strike His Individual Note Sometime Between The Ages Of Fifteen And Twenty-five. He May Hold It A Long Time, Or A Short Time, But It Is Then That He Must Strike It Or Never. School And College Have Been Conducted With The Almost Express Purpose Of Keeping Him Busy With Something Else Till The Danger Of His Ever Creating Anything Is Past.