If I Thought That Any Poem Of

Strawberries That In Gardens Grow Are Plump And Juicy Fine, But Sweeter Far As Wise Men Know Spring From The Woodland Vine. No Need For Bowl Or Silver Spoon, Sugar Or Spice Or Cream, Has The Wild Berry Plucked In June Beside The Trickling Stream. One Such To Melt At The Tongue's Root, Confounding Taste With Scent, Beats A Full Peck Of Garden Fruit: Which Points My Argument.

Love Without Hope, As When The Young Bird-catcher Swept Off His Tall Hat To The Squire's Own Daughter, So Let The Imprisoned Larks Escape And Fly Singing About Her Head, As She Rode By.

There's No Money In Poetry, But Then There's No Poetry In Money, Either.

I Made No More Protests. What Was The Use Of Struggling Against Fate

Love At First Sight'some Say Misnaming Discovery Of Twinned Helplessness Against The Huge Tug Of Procreation. But Friendship At First Sight? This Also Catches Fiercely At The Surprised Heart So That The Cheek Blanches Then Blushes.