I Go To School The Youth To

The Vermont Mountains Stretch Extended Straight; New Hampshire Mountains Curl Up In A Coil.

It's Hard To Get Into This World And Hard To Get Out Of It, And What's In Between Doesn't Make Much Sense.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.

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.

Some Say The World Will End In Fire, Some Say In Ice. From What I've Tasted Of Desire, I Hold With Those Who Favor Fire. But If It Had To Perish Twice I Think I Know Enough Of Hate To Say That For Destruction Ice Is Also Great And Would Suffice.