The Hurt Is Not Enough: I Long

Space Ails Us Moderns: We Are Sick With Space.

Gathering Leaves Spades Take Up Leaves No Better Than Spoons, And Bags Full Of Leaves Are Light As Balloons. I Make A Great Noise Of Rustling All Day Like Rabbit And Deer Running Away. But The Mountains I Raise Elude My Embrace, Flowing Over My Arms And Into My Face. I May Load And Unload Again And Again Till I Fill The Whole Shed, And What Have I Then? Next To Nothing For Weight, And Since They Grew Duller From Contact With Earth, Next To Nothing For Color. Next To Nothing For Use. But A Crop Is A Crop, And Who's To Say Where The Harvest Shall Stop?

I'd Just As Soon Play Tennis With The Net Down.

Life Must Be Kept Up At A Great Rate In Order To Absorb Any Considerable Amount Of Learning.

Life Is Tons Of Discipline.