I'm not confused. I'm just well mixed.

Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in it nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one.

Tolerance is the uncomfortable feeling that in the end the other could be right.

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.

Only God and I knew what I meant when I wrote it, now only God knows

Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

I hope to leave behind a few poems it will be hard to get rid of.