Read At Whim! Read At Whim!

I Shook Myself; I Was Dreaming. As I Went To Bed The Words Of The Eighth-grade Class's Teacher, When The Class Got To Evangeline , Kept Echoing In My Ears: "we're Coming To A Long Poem Now, Boys And Girls. Now Don't Be Babies And Start Counting The Pages." I Lay There Like A Baby, Counting The Pages Over And Over, Counting The Pages.

The Usual Bad Poem In Somebody's Collected Works Is A Learned, Mannered, Valued Habit, A Habit A Little More Careful Than, And Little Emptier Than, Brushing One's Teeth.

I Don't Need To Praise Anything So Justly Famous As Frost's Observation Of And Empathy With Everything In Nature From A Hornet To A Hillside; And He Has Observed His Own Nature, One Person's Random Or Consequential Chains Of Thoughts And Feelings And Perceptions, Quite As Well. (and This Person, In The Poems, Is Not The "alienated Artist" Cut Off From Everybody Who Isn't, Yum-yum, Another Alienated Artist; He Is Someone Like Normal People Only More So - A Normal Person In The Less Common And More Important Sense Of Normal.)

The Ways We Miss Our Lives Are Life.

To Americans, English Manners Are Far More Frightening Than None At All.