Poetry Is A Reaching Out Forward Expression,

I Own I Never Really Warmed To The Reformer Or Reformed. And Yet Conversion Has Its Place Not Halfway Down The Scale Of Grace.

They Cannot Scare Me With Their Empty Spaces Between Stars—on Stars Where No Human Race Is. I Have It In Me So Much Nearer Home To Scare Myself With My Own Desert Places.

Gathering Leaves Spades Take Up Leaves No Better Than Spoons, And Bags Full Of Leaves Are Light As Balloons. I Make A Great Noise Of Rustling All Day Like Rabbit And Deer Running Away. But The Mountains I Raise Elude My Embrace, Flowing Over My Arms And Into My Face. I May Load And Unload Again And Again Till I Fill The Whole Shed, And What Have I Then? Next To Nothing For Weight, And Since They Grew Duller From Contact With Earth, Next To Nothing For Color. Next To Nothing For Use. But A Crop Is A Crop, And Who's To Say Where The Harvest Shall Stop?

It Takes All Sorts Of In And Outdoor Schooling To Get Adapted To My Kind Of Fooling.

I Am A Writer Of Books In Retrospect. I Talk In Order To Understand; I Teach In Order To Learn.