Space ails us moderns: we are sick with space.
Two such as you with such a master speed Cannot be parted nor be swept away
That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.
We get twitted now and then on how we made this country. Well, we took the whole business, of course. It's not just that corner that we took from Mexico. When we got it all together, we got a very shapely country-the best continental cut in all the world, between the two oceans and in the right temperature zone.
Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
How are we to write The Russian novel in America As long as life goes so unterribly?
But what would interest you about the brook, It's always cold in summer, warm in winter.
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.
Modern poets talk against business, poor things, but all of us write for money. Beginners are subjected to trial by market.
The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength. To feel the earth as rough to all my length
I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.
For I have had too much Of apple-picking:I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.
Yes, and even for the past...that it will turn out to have been all right for what it was. Something I can accept. Mistakes made by the self I had to be or was not able to be.
I do not see why I should e’er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him they knew — Only more sure of all I thought was true.
The Armful For every parcel I stoop down to seize I lose some other off my arms and knees, And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns, Extremes too hard to comprehend at. once Yet nothing I should care to leave behind. With all I have to hold with hand and mind And heart, if need be, I will do my best. To keep their building balanced at my breast. I crouch down to prevent them as they fall; Then sit down in the middle of them all. I had to drop the armful in the road And try to stack them in a better load.
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be.
He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors.
People who read me seem to be divided into four groups: twenty-five percent like me for the right reasons; twenty-five percent like me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the right reasons. It's that last twenty-five percent that worries me.
Something sinister in the tone Told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone Somehow must have gotten abroad, Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God.
One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But the theory now goes That the apple's a rose.
The difference between a man and his valet: they both smoke the same cigars, but only one pays for them.
Now no joy but lacks salt That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
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