I Think That I Shall Never Scan

The Fairy Poet Takes A Sheet Of Moonbeam, Silver White; His Ink Is Dew From Daisies Sweet, His Pen A Point Of Light.

The Only Reason A Road Is Good As Every Wanderer Knows / Is Just Because Of The Homes, The Homes, The Homes To Which One Goes

Poems Are Made By Fools Like Me, But Only God Can Make A Tree

Things Have A Terrible Permanence When People Die.

I Suppose I Passed It A Hundred Times, But I Always Stop For A Minute. And Look At The House, The Tragic House, The House With Nobody In It.