I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.

I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.

In A Glass of Cider It seemed I was a mite of sediment That waited for the bottom to ferment So I could catch a bubble in ascent. I rode up on one till the bubble burst, And when that left me to sink back reversed I was no worse off than I was at first. I'd catch another bubble if I waited. The thing was to get now and then elated.

Hell is a half-filled auditorium.

All the fun is in how you say a thing.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~ And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile / And then come back to it and begin over.