One doesn't know what one doesn't know.

I love those who can smile in trouble.

A person who does nothing will enjoy no happiness.

Then I start to struggle with a feeble song$$$ which will overcome me many miles from home.

I'm not willing just to be tolerated. That wounds my love of love and of liberty.

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.

Daisies$$$ just starting to close their petals$$$ littered the grass like fallen stars.

Well$$$ all I know is this — nothing you ever learn is really wasted$$$ and will sometime be used.

Was it a sign of creeping decrepitude?

I'm afraid that surprise$$$ shock$$$ and regret is the fate of authors when they finally see themselves on the page.