The Fact Is The Sweetest Dream That

The Footpath Down To The Well Is Healed.

Nature Does Not Complete Things. She Is Chaotic. Man Must Finish, And He Does So By Making A Garden And Building A Wall.

But I May Be One Who Does Not Care Ever To Have Tree Bloom Or Bear.

Every Poem Is A Momentary Stay Against The Confusion Of The World.

My Long Two-pointed Ladder's Sticking Through A Tree Toward Heaven Still, And There's A Barrel That I Didn't Fill Beside It, And There May Be Two Or Three Apples I Didn't Pick Upon Some Bough. But I Am Done With Apple-picking Now. Essence Of Winter Sleep Is On The Night, The Scent Of Apples: I Am Drowsing Off.