Man That Is Of Woman Born Is

He Thought That I Was After Him For A Feather--- The White One In His Tail: Like One Who Takes Everything Said As Personal To Himself.

The Middle Of The Road Is Where The White Line Is - And That's The Worst Place To Drive.

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.

Fireflies In The Garden By Robert Frost 1874–1963 Here Come Real Stars To Fill The Upper Skies, And Here On Earth Come Emulating Flies, That Though They Never Equal Stars In Size, (and They Were Never Really Stars At Heart) Achieve At Times A Very Star-like Start. Only, Of Course, They Can't Sustain The Part.

In Heaven We Are All Ghostwriters, If We Write At All.