Nobody was ever meant, To remember or invent, What he did with every cent.

I never knew what was meant by choice of words. It was one word or none.

All those who try to go it sole alone, Too proud to be beholden for relief, Are absolutely sure to come to grief.

My goal in life is to unite my avocation with my vocation, As my two eyes make one in sight.

GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?

The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.

People who read me seem to be divided into four groups: twenty-five percent like me for the right reasons; twenty-five percent like me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the right reasons. It's that last twenty-five percent that worries me.