Pictures pass me in long review,-- Marching columns of dead events. I was tender, and, often, true; Ever a prey to coincidence. Always knew I the consequence; Always saw what the end would be. We're as Nature has made us -- hence I loved them until they loved me.

Somebody was using the pencil.

Scratch an actor and you'll find an actress.

I can’t write five words but that I change seven.

They tire of quiet, that have known the storm

Four be the things I'd have been better without: love, curiosity, freckles and doubt.

My verses, I cannot say poems. . . . I was following in the exquisite footsteps of Miss Millay, unhappily in my own horrible sneakers.