I will bring you flowers from the mountains$$$ bluebells$$$<br>dark hazels$$$ and rustic baskets of kisses.<br>I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

For things to reveal themselves to us$$$ we need to be ready to abandon our views about them.

If all rivers are sweet<br>where does the sea get its salt?

I believe in looseness.

<p>Which the Chicken and Which the Egg?<p/><p>He drinks because she scolds$$$ he thinks;<br/>She thinks she scolds because he drinks;<br/>And neither will admit what's true$$$<br/>That he's a sot and she's a shrew.<p/>

The Bronx? No Thonx!

[N]othing is more odious to the auditor$$$ than the artless tongue of a tedious dolt$$$ which dulls the delight of hearing$$$ and slacketh the desire of remembering.

When we remember our former selves$$$ there is always that little figure with its long shadow stopping like an uncertain belated visitor on a lighted threshold at the far end of some impeccably narrowing corridor.

If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation$$$ our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.

Only one letter divides the comic from the cosmic.