My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
The only certain freedom's in departure.
The footpath down to the well is healed.
Hope is not found in a way out but a way through.
Poetry is play. I'd even rather have you think of it as a sport. For instance, like football.
The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.