I Hate The Idea That You Ought

Loosely Bound By Countless Silken Ties Of Love And Thought To Everything On Earth The Compass Round

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting.

I Hate The Idea That You Ought To Read The Whole Of Anybody.

As It Is More Blessed To Receive, So It Must Be More Blessed To Receive Than To Give Back.

Not To Sink Under Being Man And Wife, But Get Some Color And Music Out Of Life?