Nothing but blackness aboveAnd nothing that moves but the cars...God, if you wish for our love,Fling us a handful of stars! - Caliban in the Coal Mines.

She has something to say about what life is like-which is all we ask of poetry.

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

Laughter shall drown the raucous shout;
And, though these shelt

Write out of love, write out of instinct, write out of reason. But always for money.

Nothing but blackness above
And nothing that moves but the cars...
God, if you wish for our love,
Fling us a handful of stars!