A Poem Begins As A Lump In

I Have Been One Acquainted With The Night. I Have Walked Out In Rain - And Back In Rain. I Have Outwalked The Furthest City Light. I Have Looked Down The Saddest City Lane. I Have Passed By The Watchman On His Beat And Dropped My Eyes, Unwilling To Explain.

I End Not Far From My Going Forth By Picking The Faded Blue Of The Last Remaining Aster Flower To Carry Again To You.

We Dance Round In A Ring And Suppose, But The Secret Sits In The Middle And Knows.

A True Sonnet Goes Eight Lines And Then Takes A Turn For Better Or Worse And Goes Six Or Eight Lines More.

To Be A Poet Is A Condition, Not A Profession.