Unless I'm Wrong I But Obey The

So Was I Once Myself A Swinger Of Birches. And So I Dream Of Going Back To Be.

In Spring More Mortal Singers Than Belong To Any One Place Cover Us With Song. Thrush, Bluebird, Blackbird, Sparrow, And Robin Throng.

To Be A Poet Is A Condition, Not A Profession.

As For His Evil Tidings, Belshazzar's Overthrow, Why Hurry To Tell Belshazzar What Soon Enough He Would Know?

The Rose Is A Rose, And Was Always A Rose. But The Theory Now Goes That The Apple's A Rose, And The Pear Is, And So's The Plum, I Suppose. The Dear Only Knows What Will Next Prove A Rose. You, Of Course, Are A Rose - But Were Always A Rose.