I Really Don't Know Enough About The

Variations: Ii Green Light, From The Moon, Pours Over The Dark Blue Trees, Green Light From The Autumn Moon Pours On The Grass ... Green Light Falls On The Goblin Fountain Where Hesitant Lovers Meet And Pass. They Laugh In The Moonlight, Touching Hands, They Move Like Leaves On The Wind ... I Remember An Autumn Night Like This, And Not So Long Ago, When Other Lovers Were Blown Like Leaves, Before The Coming Of Snow.

I'm Not In The Least Southern; I'm Entirely New England.

It Is Precisely The Sort Of Thing I Am Always Trying To Do In My Writing -- To Present My Unhappy Reader With A Wide-ranged Chaos -- Of Actions And Reactions, Thoughts, Memories And Feelings -- In The Vain Hope That At The End He Will See That The Whole Thing Represents Only One Moment, One Feeling, One Person. A Raging, Trumpeting Jungle Of Associations, And Then I Announce At The End Of It, With A Gesture Of Despair, "this Is I!

O Sweet Clean Earth, From Whom The Green Blade Cometh! When We Are Dead, My Best Beloved And I, Close Well Above Us, That We May Rest Forever, Sending Up Grass And Blossoms To The Sky.

Oh, I've Discarded A Great Many [poems]. And Occasionally I've Discarded And Then Resurrected. I Would Find A Crumpled Yellow Ball Of Paper In The Wastebasket, In The Morning, And Open It To See What The Hell I'd Been Up To; And Occasionally It Was Something That Needed Only A Very Slight Change To Be Brought Off, Which I'd Missed The Day Before.