Any Honest Housewife Would Sort

The Art Of Poetry Consists In Taking The Poem Through Draft After Draft, Without Losing Its Inspirational Magic: He Removes Everything Irrelevant Or Distracting, And Tightens Up What Is Left. Lazy Poets Never Carry Their Early Drafts Far Enough: Some Even Believe That Virtue Lies In The Original Doodle Scrawled On The Back Of An Envelope.

Poet, Never Chase The Dream. Laugh Yourself And Turn Away. Mask Your Hunger, Let It Seem Small Matter If He Come Or Stay; But When He Nestles In Your Hand At Last, Close Up Your Fingers Tight And Hold Him Fast.

Before An Attack, The Platoon Pools All Its Available Cash And The Survivors Divide It Up Afterwards. Those Who Are Killed Can't Complain, The Wounded Would Have Given Far More Than That To Escape As They Have, And The Unwounded Regard The Money As A Consolation Prize For Still Being Here.

Strawberries That In Gardens Grow Are Plump And Juicy Fine, But Sweeter Far As Wise Men Know Spring From The Woodland Vine. No Need For Bowl Or Silver Spoon, Sugar Or Spice Or Cream, Has The Wild Berry Plucked In June Beside The Trickling Stream. One Such To Melt At The Tongue's Root, Confounding Taste With Scent, Beats A Full Peck Of Garden Fruit: Which Points My Argument.

This Seems To Me A Philosophical Question, And Therefore Irrelevant, Question. A Poet's Destiny Is To Love.