The mind-is not the heart. I may yet live, as I know others live, To wish in vain to let go with the mind- Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me That I need learn to let go with the heart.
They would not find me changed from him they knew - only more sure of all I thought was true.
Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.
More men die of worry than of work, because more men worry than work.
The only way out is through.
Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better.
My goal in life is to unite my avocation with my vocation, As my two eyes make one in sight.
Let cloud shapes swarm, / Let chaos storm, / I wait for form.
I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.
And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song.
Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?
The ear is the only true writer and the only true reader. I know people who read without hearing the sentence sounds and they were the fastest readers. Eye readers we call them. They get the meaning by glances. But they are bad readers because they miss the best part of what a good writer puts into his work.
O hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all. The crows above the forest call; Tomorrow they may form and go. O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow. Make the day seem to us less brief. Hearts not averse to being beguiled, Beguile us in the way you know. Release one leaf at break of day; At noon release another leaf; One from our trees, one far away.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.
The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak.
Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.
Lord, I have loved Your sky, Be it said against or for me, Have loved it clear and high, Or low and stormy...
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.
I write to find out what I didn't know I knew.
Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.
God made a beauteous garden With lovely flowers strown, But one straight, narrow pathway That was not overgrown. And to this beauteous garden He brought mankind to live, And said "To you, my children, These lovely flowers I give. Prune ye my vines and fig trees, With care my flowers tend, But keep the pathway open Your home is at the end." God's Garden
It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage.
A successful lawsuit is the one worn by a policeman.
Only God and I knew what I meant when I wrote it, now only God knows
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