The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning

The Rose Is A Rose, And Was Always A Rose. But The Theory Now Goes That The Apple's A Rose, And The Pear Is, And So's The Plum, I Suppose. The Dear Only Knows What Will Next Prove A Rose. You, Of Course, Are A Rose - But Were Always A Rose.

But What Would Interest You About The Brook, It's Always Cold In Summer, Warm In Winter.

I Never Knew What Was Meant By Choice Of Words. It Was One Word Or None.

I Alone Of English Writers Have Consciously Set Myself To Make Music Out Of What I May Call The Sound Of Sense.

He Is All Pine And I Am Apple Orchard. My Apple Trees Will Never Get Across And Eat The Cones Under His Pines, I Tell Him. He Only Says, "good Fences Make Good Neighbors.