The Sister's Face Fell All In Wrinkles

Unless I'm Wrong I But Obey The Urge Of A Song: I'm-bound-away! And I May Return If Dissatisfied With What I Learn From Having Died.

The Armful For Every Parcel I Stoop Down To Seize I Lose Some Other Off My Arms And Knees, And The Whole Pile Is Slipping, Bottles, Buns, Extremes Too Hard To Comprehend At. Once Yet Nothing I Should Care To Leave Behind. With All I Have To Hold With Hand And Mind And Heart, If Need Be, I Will Do My Best. To Keep Their Building Balanced At My Breast. I Crouch Down To Prevent Them As They Fall; Then Sit Down In The Middle Of Them All. I Had To Drop The Armful In The Road And Try To Stack Them In A Better Load.

My Definition Of Poetry (if I Were Forced To Give One) Would Be This: Words That Have Become Deeds.

What Makes A Nation In The Beginning Is A Good Piece Of Geography.

There Are Two Kinds Of Teachers: The Kind That Fill You With So Much Quail Shot That You Can't Move, And The Kind That Just Gives You A Little Prod Behind And You Jump To The Skies.