Love Has Earth To Which She Clings.

How Many Times It Thundered Before Franklin Took The Hint! How Many Apples Fell On Newton's Head Before He Took The Hint! Nature Is Always Hinting At Us. It Hints Over And Over Again. And Suddenly We Take The Hint.

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

Scholars And Artists Thrown Together Are Often Annoyed At The Puzzle Of Where They Differ. Both Work From Knowledge; But I Suspectthey Differ Most Importantly In The Way Their Knowledge Is Come By. Scholars Get Theirs With Conscientious Thoroughness Along Projected Lines Of Logic; Poets Theirs Cavalierly And As It Happens In And Out Of Books. They Stick To Nothing Deliberately, But Let What Will Stick To Them Like Burrs Where They Walk In The Fields.

Nature's First Green Is Gold.

Oh, Give Us Pleasure In The Orch-ard White, Like Nothing Else By Day, Like Ghosts By Night.