The Best Way Out Is Always Through.

The Best Way To Hate Is The Worst. 'tis To Find What The Hated Need, Never Mind Of What Actual Worth, And Wipe That Out Of The Earth. Let Them Die Of Unsatisfied Greed.

A True Sonnet Goes Eight Lines And Then Takes A Turn For Better Or Worse And Goes Six Or Eight Lines More.

In Spring More Mortal Singers Than Belong To Any One Place Cover Us With Song. Thrush, Bluebird, Blackbird, Sparrow, And Robin Throng.

Not Yesterday I Learned To Know The Love Of Bare November Days Before The Coming Of The Snow.

Space Ails Us Moderns: We Are Sick With Space.