We're either nothing or a God's regret.
The people I want to hear about are the people who take risks.
The footpath down to the well is healed.
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.
What are we? Young or new? We must be something.
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.