One Of The Quainter Quirks Of Life

Life Has A Practice Of Living You, If You Don't Live It.

One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets Of The Past Is That They Said One Thing And Did Another.

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

But, O, Photography! As No Art Is,faithful And Disappointing! That Recordsdull Days As Dull, And Hold-it Smiles As Frauds,and Will Not Censor Blemishes,like Washing-lines, And Hall's-distemper Boards

Joy Is For The Simple Or The Great To Feel, Neither Of Which We Are.