You Can't Trust God To Be Unmerciful.

I Cut My Own Hair. I Got Sick Of Barbers Because They Talk Too Much. And Too Much Of Their Talk Was About My Hair Coming Out.

I Think I Know Enough Of Hate To Say That For Destruction Ice Is Also Great And Would Suffice.

The Line-storm Clouds Fly Tattered And Swift, The Road Is Forlorn All Day, Where A Myriad Snowy Quartz Stones Lift, And The Hoof-prints Vanish Away. The Roadside Flowers, Too Wet For The Bee, Expend Their Bloom In Vain. Come Over The Hills And Far With Me, And Be My Love In The Rain.

I Write To Find Out What I Didn't Know I Knew.

Writing A Poem Is Discovering.