The footpath down to the well is healed.

I have miles to go before I sleep.

Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these She a window flower And he a winter breeze.

I am not a nature poet. There is almost always a person in my poems.

Yes, and even for the past...that it will turn out to have been all right for what it was. Something I can accept. Mistakes made by the self I had to be or was not able to be.

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.

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.