The only way out is through.
I've given offense by saying I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.
Education is hanging around until you've caught on.
Friends make pretence of following to the grave but before one is in it, their minds are turned and making the best of their way back to life and living people and things they understand.
The question that he frames in all but words is what to make of a diminished 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.