So - here I am in the dark alone, There's nobody here to see; I think to myself, I play to myself, And nobody knows what I say to myself; Here I am in the dark alone, What is it going to be? I can think whatever I like to think, I can play whatever I like to play, I can laugh whatever I like to laugh, There's nobody here but me.

On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those.

Chess has this in common with making poetry; that the desire for it comes upon the amateur in gusts.

She turned to the sunlight And shook her yellow head, And whispered to her neighbor: "Winter is dead.

Don't underestimate the value of Doing Nothing

My spelling is Wobbly. It's good spelling but it Wobbles, and the letters get in the wrong places.

On Monday, when the sun is hot, I wonder to myself a lot. Now is it true, or is it not, that what is which and which is what?