The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day.

No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.

The only way out is to go through

Hope is not found in a way out but a way through.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out.

Style is that which indicates how the writer takes himself and what he is saying. It is the mind skating circles around itself as it moves forward.