Poems Are Made By Fools Like Me,

I Think That I Shall Never See A Poem Lovely As A Tree. A Tree Whose Hungry Mouth Is Prest Against The Earth's Sweet Flowing Breast.

In A Wood They Call The Rouge Bouquet, There Is A New-made Grave Today, Built By Never A Spade Nor Pick, Yet Covered With Earth Ten Meteres Thick. There Lie Many Fighting Men. Dead In Their Youthful Prime.

They Say That Life Is A Highway And Its Milestones Are The Years,and Now And Then There's A Toll-gate Where You Buy Your Way With Tears.it's A Rough Road And A Steep Road And It Stretches Broad And Far,but At Last It Leads To A Golden Town Where Golden Houses Are.

There Is No Place In Which To Hide When Age Comes Seeking For His Bride.

Things Have A Terrible Permanence When People Die.