I Very Much Wished Not To Be

Why Should I Not Sit, Every Morning Of My Life, On The Hillside, Looking Into The Shining World?

I Go Down To The Shore I Go Down To The Shore In The Morning And Depending On The Hour The Waves Are Rolling In Or Moving Out, And I Say, Oh, I Am Miserable, What Shall— What Should I Do? And The Sea Says In Its Lovely Voice: Excuse Me, I Have Work To Do.

You Must Not Ever Stop Being Whimsical.

But How Did You Come Burning Down Like A Wild Needle, Knowing Just Where My Heart Was?

He Is Exactly The Poem I Wanted To Write.