One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets

Spring, Of All Seasons Most Gratuitous, Is Fold Of Untaught Flower, Is Race Of Water, Is Earth's Most Multiple, Excited Daughter; And Those She Has Least Use For See Her Best, Their Paths Grown Craven And Circuitous, Their Visions Mountain-clear, Their Needs Immodest.

I Have Started To Say "a Quarter Of A Century" Or "thirty Years Back" About My Own Life.

Still, Vicious Or Virtuous, Love Suits Most Of Us.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.

Boys Dream Of Native Girls Who Bring Breadfruit, Whatever They Are.