When I was young, I was so interested in baseball that my family was afraid I'd waste my life and be a pitcher. Later they were afraid I'd waste my life and be a poet. They were right.
When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't hoed, And shout from where I am, What is it? No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit.
A true sonnet goes eight lines and then takes a turn for better or worse and goes six or eight lines more.
Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow.
When I was young my teachers were the old. I gave up fire for form till I was cold.
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