The First Thing I Do In Any

The Afternoon Knows What The Morning Never Suspected.

If The Writer Does Not Cry, The Reader Does Not Cry.

I End Not Far From My Going Forth By Picking The Faded Blue Of The Last Remaining Aster Flower To Carry Again To You.

I See For Nature No Defeat In One Tree's Overthrow Or For Myself In My Retreat For Yet Another Blow.

A Poem Begins As A Lump In The Throat, A Sense Of Wrong, A Homesickness, A Lovesickness.