The Award Of A Pure Gold Medal

If I Were A Young Man With My Bones Full Of Marrow, Oh, If I Were A Bold Young Man Straight As An Arrow, I'd Store Up No Virtue For Heaven's Distant Plain, I'd Live At Ease As I Did Please And Sin Once Again.

But Give Thanks, At Least, That You Still Have Frost's Poems; And When You Feel The Need Of Solitude, Retreat To The Companionship Of Moon, Water, Hills And Trees. Retreat, He Reminds Us, Should Not Be Confused With Escape. And Take These Poems Along For Good Luck!

Every Fairy Child May Keep Two Strong Ponies And Ten Sheep; All Have Houses, Each His Own, Built Of Brick Or Granite Stone; They Live On Cherries, They Run Wild I'd Love To Be A Fairy's Child.

Love Without Hope, As When The Young Bird-catcher Swept Off His Tall Hat To The Squire's Own Daughter, So Let The Imprisoned Larks Escape And Fly Singing About Her Head, As She Rode By.

Nine-tenths Of English Poetic Literature Is The Result Either Of Vulgar Careerism Or Of A Poet Trying To Keep His Hand In. Most Poets Are Dead By Their Late Twenties.