Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.

The footpath down to the well is healed.

The way a crow Shook down on me. The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood. And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

The Vermont mountains stretch extended straight; New Hampshire mountains curl up in a coil.

Never discuss the poem you contemplate writing. It's like turning on the outside spigot. It takes all the pressure off the upstairs bathroom.

The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.