If The Writer Does Not Cry, The

I See For Nature No Defeat In One Tree's Overthrow Or For Myself In My Retreat For Yet Another Blow.

That Day She Put Our Heads Together, Fate Had Her Imagination About Her, Your Head So Much Concerned With Outer, Mine With Inner, Weather.

The Old Dog Barks Backward Without Getting Up I Can Remember When He Was A Pup.

Before I Built A Wall I'd Ask To Know What I Was Walling In Or Walling Out, And To Whom I Was Like To Give Offence. Something There Is That Doesn't Love A Wall, That Wants It Down.

There Is Little Much Beyond The Grave, But The Strong Are Saying Nothing Until They See.