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.

O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow, Make the day seem to us less brief... Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst.

The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

The only way out is through.

The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people.

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

The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.