So dawn goes down today... Nothing gold can stay.

-- Robert Frost

Poetry is just so emo." he said. "Oh, the pain. The pain. It always rains. In my soul.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table.

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question...

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

These are all direct quotes, except every time they use a curse word, I'm going to use the name of a famous American poet:

'You Walt Whitman-ing, Edna St. Vincent Millay! Go Emily Dickinson your mom!'

'Thanks for the advice, you pathetic piece of E.E. Cummings, but I think I'm gonna pass.'

'You Robert Frost-ing Nikki Giovanni! Get a life, nerd. You're a virgin.'

'Hey bro, you need to go outside and get some fresh air into you. Or a girlfriend.'

I need to get a girlfriend into me? I think that shows a fundamental lack of comprehension about how babies are made.

7. But what kind of love is it, really? Don’t fool yourself and call it sublimity. Admit that you have stood in front of a little pile of powdered ultramarine pigment in a glass cup at a museum and felt a stinging desire. But to do what? Liberate it? Purchase it? Ingest it? . . . You might want to reach out and disturb the pile of pigment, for example, first staining your fingers with it, then staining the world. You might want to dilute it and swim in it, you might want to rouge your nipples with it, you might want to paint a virgin’s robe with it. But still you wouldn’t be accessing the blue of it. Not exactly.

I'll be your blanket, baby. Wrap yourself up in me. Let me give you shelter, in the winter of this world.