It is only a moment here and a moment there that the greatest writer has. Some cognizance of the fact must be taken in your teaching.
... A nation has to take its natural course Of Progress round and round in circles From King to Mob to King to Mob to King Until the eddy of it eddies out.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye.
The sister's face Fell all in wrinkles of responsibility. She wanted to do right. She'd have to think.
Lord, I have loved Your sky, Be it said against or for me, Have loved it clear and high, Or low and stormy...
The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day.
You can be a little ungrammatical if you come from the right part of the country.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
And were an epitaph to be my story I'd have a short one ready for my own. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world.
We ran as if to meet the moon.
Loyalty is that for the lack of which your gang will shoot you without benefit of trial by jury.
Education is hanging around until you've caught on.
Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. . . . Read it a hundred times; it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.
You don't have to deserve your mother's love. You have to deserve your father's.
Life is tons of discipline. Your first discipline is your vocabulary; then your grammar and your punctuation Then, in your exuberance and bounding energy you say you're going to add to that. Then you add rhyme and meter. And your delight is in that power.
I never knew what was meant by choice of words. It was one word or none.
I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.
They would not find me changed from him they knew - only more sure of all I thought was true.
I was under twenty when I deliberately put it to myself one night after good conversation that there are moments when we actually touch in talk what the best writing can only come near. The curse of our book language is not so much that it keeps forever to the same set phrases . . . but that it sounds forever with the same reading tones. We must go out into the vernacular for tones that haven't been brought to book.
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak.
I have been one acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain - and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
It was far in the sameness of the wood; I was running with joy on the Demon's trail, Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
Humor is the most engaging cowardice.
Let him that is without stone among you cast the first thing he can lay his hands on.
No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.
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