Nature's first green is gold.
And nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope.
Americans are like a rich father who wishes he knew how to give his son the hardships that made him rich.
Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow.
People are inexterminable - like flies and bed-bugs. There will always be some that survive in cracks and crevices - that's us.
There would be more than ocean-water broken Before God's last Put out the Light was spoken.
Let me be the one To do what is done.
I have just been to a city in the West, a city full of poets, a city they have made safe for poets. The whole city is so lovely that you do not have to write it up to make it poetry; it is ready-made for you. But, I don't know - the poetry written in that city might not seem like poetry if read outside of the city. It would be like the jokes made when you were drunk; you have to get drunk again to appreciate them.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Belief is better than anything else, and it is best when rapt - above paying its respects to anybody's doubt whatsoever.
I am assured at any rate Man's practically inexterminate. Someday I must go into that. There's always been an Ararat Where someone someone else begat To start the world all over at.
Nothing not built with hands of course is sacred. But here is not a question of what's sacred; Rather of what to face or run away from. I'd hate to be a runaway from nature.
Evolution is like walking on a rolling barrel. The walker isn't so much interested in where the barrel is going as he is in keeping on top of it.
When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud And goes down burning into the gulf below, No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud At what has happened. Birds, at least must know It is the change to darkness in the sky. Murmuring something quiet in her breast, One bird begins to close a faded eye; Or overtaken too far from his nest, Hurrying low above the grove, some waif Swoops just in time to his remembered tree. At most he thinks or twitters softly, 'Safe! Now let the night be dark for all of me. Let the night be too dark for me to see Into the future. Let what will be, be.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.
He thought that I was after him for a feather--- The white one in his tail: like one who takes everything said as personal to himself.
Democracy is the best chance for the best people.
When I was young, I was so interested in baseball that my family was afraid I'd waste my life and be a pitcher. Later they were afraid I'd waste my life and be a poet. They were right.
A man has got to keep his extrication. The important thing is not to get bogged down In what he has to do to earn a living.
Summoning artists to participate In the august occasions of the state Seems something artists ought to celebrate. Today is for my cause a day of days.
Only where love and need are one, And the work is play for mortal stakes Is the deed ever truly done For Heaven and the future's sakes
I only hope that when I am free, as they are free to go in quest, of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life, it may not seem better to me to rest.
Poetry is play. I'd even rather have you think of it as a sport. For instance, like football.
I never feel more at home than at a ballgame.
Our life runs down in sending up the clock. The brook runs down in sending up our life. The sun runs down in sending up the brook. And there is something sending up the sun. It is this backward motion toward the source, Against the stream, that most we see ourselves in, The tribute of the current to the source. It is from this in nature we are from. It is most us.
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