When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't hoed, And shout from where I am, What is it? No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit.

Being the boss anywhere is lonely. Being a female boss in a world of mostly men is especially so.

A successful lawsuit is the one worn by a policeman.

I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice Some say when they are in voice And tossing so as to scare The white clouds over them on, I shall have less to say, But I shall be none.

Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.

For I have had too much Of apple-picking:I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.

The only way round is through.