I Only Know That Summer Sang In

The Heart Grows Weary After A Little Of What It Loved For A Little While.

To A Young Poet Time Cannot Break The Bird's Wing From The Bird. Bird And Wing Together Go Down, One Feather. No Thing That Ever Flew, Not The Lark, Not You, Can Die As Others Do.

You See, I Am A Poet, And Not Quite Right In The Head, Darling. It’s Only That.

How Strange A Thing Is Death, Bringing To His Knees, Bringing To His Antlers The Buck In The Snow . . . Life, Looking Out Attentive From The Eyes Of The Doe.

Please Give Me Some Good Advice In Your Next Letter. I Promise Not To Follow It.