I Think I Know Enough

Ah, When To The Heart Of Man Was It Ever Less Than A Treason To Go With The Drift Of Things, To Yield With A Grace To Reason, And Bow And Accept The End Of A Love Or A Season?

Never Discuss The Poem You Contemplate Writing. It's Like Turning On The Outside Spigot. It Takes All The Pressure Off The Upstairs Bathroom.

For I Have Had Too Much Of Apple-picking:i Am Overtired Of The Great Harvest I Myself Desired.

The First Thing I Do In Any Town I Come To Is Ask If It Has A Bookstore.

Let Him That Is Without Stone Among You Cast The First Thing He Can Lay His Hands On.