End Is A Gloomy Word.

You, Of Course, Are A Rose-- But Were Always A Rose.

When Clever People Ask Me Where I Get A Poem, I Despair.

That Day She Put Our Heads Together, Fate Had Her Imagination About Her, Your Head So Much Concerned With Outer, Mine With Inner, Weather.

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.

All The Fun Is In How You Say A Thing.