It will be long ere the marshes resume,
I will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.
Nothing is more inspiring than a Robert Frost poem to this author. I could sip them like tea on even an Indian Summer day. But that is not always what happens; when I look for inspiration or a good verse to ignite the pen, the results sometimes cough like a diesel jalopy. I wish some one would give in and print all of these lovely anti-prose works in one volume. But now I exhale and type.