I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart
The only way around is through.
Nothing flatters me more than to have it assumed that I could write prose, unless it be to have it assumed that I once pitched a baseball with distinction.
The artist in me cries out for design.
So when at times the mob is swayed To carry praise or blame too far, We may choose something like a star To stay our minds on and be staid.