We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

Most Poetry Is Very Formal, But When A Modern Poet Is Formal He Gets More Attention For It Than Old Poets Did.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.