I Guess I'm The Black Death,' He

Then, As Though It Had Been Waiting On A Near By Roof For Their Arrival, The Moon Came Slanting Suddenly Through The Vines And Turned The Girl's Face The Color Of White Roses.

I Am Tired Of Knowing Nothing And Being Reminded Of It All The Time.

It Is Invariably Saddening To Look Through New Eyes At Things Upon Which You Have Expended Your Own Powers Of Adjustment.

What'll We Do With Ourselves This Afternoon? And The Day After That, And The Next Thirty Years?

For Awhile After You Quit Keats All Other Poetry Seems To Be Only Whistling Or Humming.