The Stillness Of October Gold Went Out

Poets And Kings Are But The Clerks Of Time, Tiering The Same Dull Webs Of Discontent, Clipping The Same Sad Alnage Of The Years.

This Morning I Deleted The Hyphen From "hell-bound" And Made It One Word; This Afternoon I Redivided It And Restored The Hyphen.

Pity Is Like A Knife, Sometimes, And It May Pierce One Who Employs It More Shrewdly Than The Victim It Would Save.

I Shall Have More To Say When I Am Dead.

Two Kinds Of Gratitude: The Sudden Kind We Feel For What We Take; The Larger Kind We Feel For What We Give.