The Only Way Out Is To Go

Possessing What We Still Were Unpossessed By, Possessed By What We Now No More Possessed.

For I Have Had Too Much Of Apple-picking:i Am Overtired Of The Great Harvest I Myself Desired.

Sentences Are Not Different Enough To Hold The Attention Unless They Are Dramatic. No Ingenuity Of Varying Structure Will Do. All That Can Save Them Is The Speaking Tone Of Voice Somehow Entangled In The Words And Fastened To The Page For The Ear Of The Imagination. That Is All That Can Save Poetry From Sing-song, All That Can Save Prose From Itself.

I Am Not A Teacher. I Am An Awakener.

The Trees That Have It In Their Pent-up Buds To Darken Nature And Be Summer Woods.