Write out of love, write out of instinct, write out of reason. But always for money.
She has something to say about what life is like-which is all we ask of poetry.
From compromise and things half done, Keep me with stern and stubborn pride And when at last the fight is won, God, keep me still unsatisfied
It takes a heap o' children to make a home that's true, And home can be a palace grand, or just a plain, old shoe But if it has a mother dear, and a good old dad or two, Why, that's the sort of good old home for good old me and you
Why has our poetry eschewed The rapture and response of food What hymns are sung and praises said For the home made miracle of bread