One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
There is no love.There's only love of men and women, loveOf children, love of friends, of men, of God:Divine love, human love, parental love,Roughly discriminated for the rough.
Only where love and need are one, And the work is play for mortal stakes Is the deed ever truly done For Heaven and the future's sakes
The Moon for all her light and graceHas never learned to know her place.
Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes the pressure off the second.