This morning a romantic excitement seized me, flooding
my memory with long-forgotten words: Shakespeare’s
love Sonnets, Whitman’s Song of Myself, Wordsworth’s
great Ode, Keats’To Autumn. All so romantic, don’t you think?
To bring verse to mind, to lip; to hear ah from one’s lover.
Savoring each word, I remembered, once, fevered with love

scratching April is the cruelest month in wet concrete.

This morning I thought, perhaps, I shall purchase a hand-bound
book to hold remembered lines, one small enough to carry,
one big enough for the romantics; but I rebel against the urge,
resist the excitement. Perhaps not, for some ideas seem good
at first thought, but quickly fade, and like words are forgotten.