Poems Are Made By Fools Like Me,

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

I Think That I Shall Never See A Poem Lovely As A Tree.

Things Have A Terrible Permanence When People Die.

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