Nobody was ever meant, To remember or invent, What he did with every cent.
God turned to speak to me (Don't anybody laugh); God found I wasn't there At least not over half.
A poem begins with a lump in the throat
There are few sorrows, however poignant, in which a good income is of no avail.
Most of the change we think we see in life is due to truths being in and out of favor.
All those who try to go it sole alone, Too proud to be beholden for relief, Are absolutely sure to come to grief.
A poet never takes notes. You never take notes in a love affair.
GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?
There is no love. There's only love of men and women, love Of children, love of friends, of men, of God: Divine love, human love, parental love, Roughly discriminated for the rough.
No, in country money, the country scale of gain, The requisite lift of spirit has never been found.
Poets need not go to Niagara to write about the force of falling water.
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away / You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same for love.
If one by one we counted people out
I am a writer of books in retrospect. I talk in order to understand; I teach in order to learn.
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom.
Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air.
He says the best way out is always through. / And I can agree to that, or in so far / As that I can see no way out but through
You've got to be brave and you've got to be bold. Brave enough to take your chance on your own discrimination, what's right and what's wrong, what's good and what's bad.
I have miles to go before I sleep.
Poets like Shakespeare know more about poetry than any $25 an hour man.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods.
We disparage reason. But all the time it's what we're most concerned with. There's will as motor and there's will as brakes. Reason is, I suppose, the steering gear.
One aged man - one man - can't fill a house.
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