One Reason Why I Like Writing Poetry

That's The Worst…or The Best…of Real Life, Anne. It Won't Let You Be Miserable. It Keeps On Trying To Make You Comfortable…and Succeeding…even When You're Determined To Be Unhappy And Romantic.

I'm Really A Very Happy, Contented Little Person In Spite Of My Broken Heart.

She Asked Me What Made Me Do Such A Thing. That Is An Awkward Question Because I Often Can't Tell What Makes Me Do Things. Sometimes I Do Them Just To Find Out What I Feel Like Doing Them. And Sometimes I Do Them Because I Want To Have Some Exciting Things To Tell My Grandchildren.

It Was In The Spring That Josephine And I Had First Loved Each Other, Or, At Least, Had First Come Into The Full Knowledge That We Loved. I Think That We Must Have Loved Each Other All Our Lives, And That Each Succeeding Spring Was A Word In The Revelation Of That Love, Not To Be Understood Until, In The Fullness Of Time, The Whole Sentence Was Written Out In That Most Beautiful Of All Beautiful Springs.

Hark, I Hear A Robin Calling! List, The Wind Is From The South! And The Orchard-bloom Is Falling Sweet As Kisses On The Mouth. In The Dreamy Vale Of Beeches Fair And Faint Is Woven Mist, And The River's Orient Reaches Are The Palest Amethyst. Every Limpid Brook Is Singing Of The Lure Of April Days; Every Piney Glen Is Ringing With The Maddest Roundelays. Come And Let Us Seek Together Springtime Lore Of Daffodils, Giving To The Golden Weather Greeting On The Sun-warm Hills.