The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.

He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart

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.

How many times it thundered before Franklin took the hint! How many apples fell on Newton's head before he took the hint! Nature is always hinting at us. It hints over and over again. And suddenly we take the hint.

It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same for love.

There are few sorrows, however poignant, in which a good income is of no avail.