If You Don't Know How Great This

But I May Be One Who Does Not Care Ever To Have Tree Bloom Or Bear.

Such Heaps Of Broken Glass To Sweep Away / You'd Think The Inner Dome Of Heaven Had Fallen.

Poetry Is Play. I'd Even Rather Have You Think Of It As A Sport. For Instance, Like Football.

Evolution Is Like Walking On A Rolling Barrel. The Walker Isn't So Much Interested In Where The Barrel Is Going As He Is In Keeping On Top Of It.

The Chance Is The Remotest, Of Its Going Much Longer Unnoticed, That I'm Not Keeping Pace With The Headlong Human Race