The only way out is through.
You don't have to deserve your mother's love. You have to deserve your father's.
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.
Any eye is an evil eye That looks in on to a mood apart.
They would not find me changed from him they knew - only more sure of all I thought was true.
Let cloud shapes swarm, / Let chaos storm, / I wait for form.
Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better.
It comes down to a doubt about the wisdom Of having children after having had them, So there is nothing we can do about it But warn the children they perhaps should have none.
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.
I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.
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.
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?
And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song.
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.
More men die of worry than of work, because more men worry than work.
Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.
I go to school the youth to learn the future.
Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak.
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.
Lord, I have loved Your sky, Be it said against or for me, Have loved it clear and high, Or low and stormy...
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
Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.
I write to find out what I didn't know I knew.
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.
Being the boss anywhere is lonely. Being a female boss in a world of mostly men is especially so.
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