Come Grow Old With Me, For The

The Afternoon Knows What The Morning Never Suspected.

Oh, Give Us Pleasure In The Orch-ard White, Like Nothing Else By Day, Like Ghosts By Night.

The Way A Crow Shook Down On Me The Dust Of Snow From A Hemlock Tree Has Given My Heart A Change Of Mood And Saved Some Part Of A Day I Had Rued.

Poetry Is Play. I'd Even Rather Have You Think Of It As A Sport. For Instance, Like Football.

Ends And Beginnings—there Are No Such Things. There Are Only Middles.