"Really, friend, I can't let you. You may need them." "Not till I shrink, when they'll be out of style." "But really I——I have so many collars." "I don't know who I rather would have have them. They're only turning yellow where they are. But you're the doctor, as the saying is. I'll put the light out. Don't you wait for me...."
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.
Lancaster bore him such a little town, Such a great man. It doesn't see him often Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead And sends the children down there with their mother To run wild in the summer a little wild.
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled, That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust, But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
Here are your waters and your watering place. Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.
"... It's a day's work To empty one house of all household goods And fill another with 'em fifteen miles away, Although you do no more than dump them down."
States strong enough to do good are but few. Their number would seem limited to three.
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.
I know that winter death has never tried The earth but it has failed:
Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.