What You Want, What You're Hanging Around

When I See Birches Bend To Left And Right... I Like To Think Some Boy's Been Swinging Them.

And Were An Epitaph To Be My Story I'd Have A Short One Ready For My Own. I Would Have Written Of Me On My Stone: I Had A Lover's Quarrel With The World.

The Sun Was Warm But The Wind Was Chill. You Know How It Is With An April Day.

I Have Wished A Bird Would Fly Away, And Not Sing By My House All Day.

Before Now Poetry Has Taken Notice Of Wars, And What Are Wars But Politics Transformed From Chronic To Acute And Bloody?