Oh, Come Forth Into The Storm And

I'd Like To Get Away From Earth Awhile And Then Come Back To It And Begin Over. May No Fate Wilfully Misunderstand Me And Half Grant What I Wish And Snatch Me Away Not To Return. Earth's The Right Place For Love: I Don't Know Where It's Likely To Go Better.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.

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.

Hope Is Not Found In A Way Out But A Way Through.

The Only Way Round Is Through.