The Only Way Round Is Through.

The Rain To The Wind Said, You Push And I'll Pelt.' They So Smote The Garden Bed That The Flowers Actually Knelt, And Lay Lodged--though Not Dead. I Know How The Flowers Felt.

All There Is To Writing Is Having Ideas. To Learn To Write Is To Learn To Have Ideas.

Sentences Are Not Different Enough To Hold The Attention Unless They Are Dramatic. No Ingenuity Of Varying Structure Will Do. All That Can Save Them Is The Speaking Tone Of Voice Somehow Entangled In The Words And Fastened To The Page For The Ear Of The Imagination. That Is All That Can Save Poetry From Sing-song, All That Can Save Prose From Itself.

Let's Get My Incantation Right: "i Wish I May, I Wish I Might" Give Earth Another Satellite.

One Luminary Clock Against The Sky Proclaimed The Time Was Neither Wrong Nor Right.