They sicken of the calm who know the storm.
I wish, I wish I were a poisonous bacterium.
My verses, I cannot say poems. . . . I was following in the exquisite footsteps of Miss Millay, unhappily in my own horrible sneakers.
Hold your pen and spare your voice.
Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.
Never throw mud: you can miss the target, but your hands will remain dirty.