Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?
Insomnia" perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.
The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing.
Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs--no regular hours, so many temptations!
Time to plant tears, says the almanac. The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove and the child draws another inscrutable house.
I HATED the Salinger story. It took me days to go through it, gingerly, a page at a time, and blushing with embarrassment for him every ridiculous sentence of the way. How can they let him do it?