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.
Loyalty is that for the lack of which your gang will shoot you without benefit of trial by jury.
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.
Humor is the most engaging cowardice.
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.
But not gold in commercial quantities, Just enough gold to make the engagement rings And marriage rings of those who owned the farm. What gold more innocent could one have asked for?
I have remained resentful to this day When any but myself presumed to say That there was anything I couldn't be.
My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
My definition of poetry (if I were forced to give one) would be this: words that have become deeds.
A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile / And then come back to it and begin over.
Don't join too many gangs. Join few if any. Join the United States and join the family- But not much in between unless a college.
The chief reason for going to school is to get the impression fixed for life that there is a book side for everything.
I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice.
I believe in teaching, but I don’t believe in going to school.
Courage is of the heart by derivation, And great it is. But fear is of the soul.
The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all.
You can be a rank insider as well as a rank outsider.
Courage is in the air in bracing whiffs Better than all the stalemate an's and ifs.
Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.
An idea is a feat of association.
The question that he frames in all but words is what to make of a diminished thing.
I could define poetry this way: it is that which is lost out of both prose and verse in translation.
The chance is the remotest, Of its going much longer unnoticed, That I'm not keeping pace With the headlong human race
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