Nobody Was Ever Meant, To Remember Or

End Is A Gloomy Word.

My Sorrow, When She's Here With Me, Thinks These Dark Days Of Autumn Rain Are Beautiful As Days Can Be; She Loves The Bare, The Withered Tree; She Walks The Sodden Pasture Lane.

He Burned His House Down For The Fire Insurance And Spent The Proceeds On A Telescope.

I Cut My Own Hair. I Got Sick Of Barbers Because They Talk Too Much. And Too Much Of Their Talk Was About My Hair Coming Out.

It Is Absurd To Think That The Only Way To Tell If A Poem Is Lasting Is To Wait And See If It Lasts. The Right Reader Of A Good Poem Can Tell The Moment It Strikes Him That He Has Taken An Immortal Wound-that He Will Never Get Over It.