The Woods Are Lovely, Dark, And Deep

The Only Way Out Is Through.

You've Often Heard Me Say - Perhaps Too Often - That Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation. That Little Poem Means Just What It Says And It Says What It Means, Nothing Less But Nothing More.

Anything More Than The Truth Would Have Seemed Too Weak.

I Could Give All To Time Except--except What I Myself Have Held.

I'm Not Confused. I'm Just Well Mixed.