<p>“I walk down the garden paths,<br/>And all the daffodils<br/>Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.<br/>I walk down the patterned garden-paths<br/>In my stiff, brocaded gown....”</p><p>I cannot quote a single line from this poem—it’s a whole, a piece of typographical art. Just notice that the title is an anagram of “grasshopper,” and then see the poem itself.</p><p>“Wild Nights — Wild Nights!<br/>Were I with thee<br/>Wild Nights should be<br/>Our luxury!”</p><p>“Had we but world enough, and time,<br/>This coyness, lady, were no crime.<br/>We would sit down and think which way<br/>To walk, and pass our long love’s day...”</p><p>“While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead<br/>I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.<br/>You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,<br/>You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums...”</p><p>“The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:<br/>The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play...”</p><p>“What happens to a dream deferred?<br/><br/> Does it dry up<br/> like a raisin in the sun?...”</p><p>“Glory be to God for dappled things—<br/> For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;<br/> For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim...”</p><p>“To everything, there is a season,<br/>and a time to every purpose under the heaven:<br/>a time to be born, and a time to die...”</p><p>“A Black, E white, I red, U green, O blue: vowels,<br/>I shall tell, one day, of your mysterious origins...”</p><p>“The poet is a faker<br/>Who’s so good at his act<br/>He even fakes the pain<br/>Of pain, he feels in fact...”</p>