The Rose Is A Rose, And Was

People Who Read Me Seem To Be Divided Into Four Groups: Twenty-five Percent Like Me For The Right Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Like Me For The Wrong Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Hate Me For The Wrong Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Hate Me For The Right Reasons. It's That Last Twenty-five Percent That Worries Me.

My Sorrow, When She's Here With Me, Thinks These Dark Days Of Autumn Rain Are Beautiful As Days Can Be; She Loves The Bare, The Withered Tree; She Walks The Sodden Pasture Lane.

You've Got To Love What's Lovable, And Hate What's Hateable. It Takes Brains To See The Difference.

The Best Thing We're Put Here For's To See; The Strongest Thing That's Given Us To See With's A Telescope. Someone In Every Town, Seems To Me, Owes It To The Town To Keep One.

Every Poem Is A Momentary Stay Against The Confusion Of The World.