I Wonder About The Trees. Why Do

When A Friend Calls To Me From The Road And Slows His Horse To A Meaning Walk, I Don't Stand Still And Look Around On All The Hills I Haven't Hoed, And Shout From Where I Am, What Is It? No, Not As There Is A Time To Talk. I Thrust My Hoe In The Mellow Ground, Blade-end Up And Five Feet Tall, And Plod: I Go Up To The Stone Wall For A Friendly Visit.

For Hard It Is To Keep From Being King When It's In You And In The Situation.

Loosely Bound By Countless Silken Ties Of Love And Thought To Everything On Earth The Compass Round

We Dance Round In A Ring And Suppose, But The Secret Sits In The Middle And Knows.

I Am Not A Nature Poet. There Is Almost Always A Person In My Poems.