If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.

O sweet spontaneous earth how often has the naughty thumb of science prodded thy beauty thou answereth them only with spring.

In just - Spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee

Now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened.

for whenever men are right they are not young

in time of daffodils(who know the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why,remember how in time of lilacs who proclaim the aim of waking is to dream, remember so(forgetting seem) in time of roses(who amaze our now and here with paradise) forgetting if,remember yes in time of all sweet things beyond whatever mind may comprehend, remember seek(forgetting find) and in a mystery to be (when time from time shall set us free) forgetting me,remember me

Nobody loses all the time.