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In A Glass Of Cider It Seemed I Was A Mite Of Sediment That Waited For The Bottom To Ferment So I Could Catch A Bubble In Ascent. I Rode Up On One Till The Bubble Burst, And When That Left Me To Sink Back Reversed I Was No Worse Off Than I Was At First. I'd Catch Another Bubble If I Waited. The Thing Was To Get Now And Then Elated.

-Robert Frost

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In A Glass Of

Robert Frost

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In A Glass Of Cider It Seemed I Was A Mite Of Sediment That Waited For The Bottom To Ferment So I Could Catch A Bubble In Ascent. I Rode Up On One Till The Bubble Burst, And When That Left Me To Sink Back Reversed I Was No Worse Off Than I Was At First. I'd Catch Another Bubble If I Waited. The Thing Was To Get Now And Then Elated.

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Nature Is Always Hinting At Us. It Hints Over And Over Again. And Suddenly We Take The Hint.

I Am Not A Teacher. I Am An Awakener.

Suddenly, Quietly, You Realize That - From This Moment Forth - You Will No Longer Walk Through This Life Alone. Like A New Sun This Awareness Arises Within You, Freeing You From Fear, Opening Your Life. It Is The Beginning Of Love, And The End Of All That Came Before.

How Many Times It Thundered Before Franklin Took The Hint! How Many Apples Fell On Newton's Head Before He Took The Hint! Nature Is Always Hinting At Us. It Hints Over And Over Again. And Suddenly We Take The Hint.

Far In The Pillared Dark Thrush Music Went- Almost Like A Call To Come In To The Dark And Lament. But No, I Was Out For Stars: I Would Not Come In. I Meant Not Even If Asked, And I Hadn't Been.

He Burned His House Down For The Fire Insurance And Spent The Proceeds On A Telescope.

The Rose Is A Rose, And Was Always A Rose. But The Theory Now Goes That The Apple's A Rose, And The Pear Is, And So's The Plum, I Suppose. The Dear Only Knows What Will Next Prove A Rose. You, Of Course, Are A Rose - But Were Always A Rose.

You've Often Heard Me Say - Perhaps Too Often - That Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation. That Little Poem Means Just What It Says And It Says What It Means, Nothing Less But Nothing More.

A Name With Meaning Could Bring Up A Child, Taking The Child Out Of The Parents' Hands. Better A Meaningless Name, I Should Say, As Leaving More To Nature And Happy Chance. Name Children Some Names And See What You Do.

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?

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

The Best Things And Best People Rise Out Of Their Separateness; I'm Against A Homogenized Society Because I Want The Cream To Rise.

The Only Way Round Is Through.

For, Dear Me, Why Abandon A Belief, Merely Because It Ceases To Be True, Cling To It Long Enough, And Not A Doubt, It Will Turn True Again, For So It Goes.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting.

Style Is Less The Man Than The Way A Man Takes Himself.

But Strictly Held By None, Is Loosely Bound By Countless Silken Ties Of Love And Thought To Everything On Earth The Compass Round, And Only By One's Going Slightly Taut In The Capriciousness Of Summer Air Is Of The Slightest Bondage Made Aware.

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.

I Shall Set Forth For Somewhere, I Shall Make The Reckless Choice Some Say When They Are In Voice And Tossing So As To Scare The White Clouds Over Them On, I Shall Have Less To Say, But I Shall Be None.

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.

We Ran As If To Meet The Moon.

A Jury Consists Of Twelve Persons Chosen To Decide Who Has The Better Lawyer.

The Hurt Is Not Enough: I Long For Weight And Strength. To Feel The Earth As Rough To All My Length

Poets Like Shakespeare Know More About Poetry Than Any $25 An Hour Man.

If You Remember Only One Thing I've Said, Remember That An Idea Is A Feat Of Association, And The Height Of It Is A Good Metaphor. If You Have Never Made A Good Metaphor, Then You Don't Know What It's All About.

Both T.s. Eliot And I Like To Play, But I Like To Play Euchre, While He Likes To Play Eucharist.

If There Is One Thing In Life That I Have Learned About Life It Is... It Goes On.

I'd Like To Get Away From Earth Awhile / And Then Come Back To It And Begin Over.

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.

Earth's The Right Place For Love. I Don't Know Where It's Likely To Go Better.

Nature Is Always Hinting At Us.

What We Live By We Die By.

There Are Few Sorrows, However Poignant, In Which A Good Income Is Of No Avail.

Any Eye Is An Evil Eye That Looks In On To A Mood Apart.

There Are Two Kinds Of Teachers: The Kind That Fill You With So Much Quail Shot That You Can't Move, And The Kind That Just Gives You A Little Prod Behind And You Jump To The Skies.

Life Is Tons Of Discipline.

So When At Times The Mob Is Swayed To Carry Praise Or Blame Too Far, We May Choose Something Like A Star To Stay Our Minds On And Be Staid.

More Men Die Of Worry Than Of Work, Because More Men Worry Than Work.

Poets Are Like Baseball Pitchers. Both Have Their Moments. The Intervals Are The Tough Things.

But He Had Gone His Way, The Grass All Mown, And I Must Be, As He Had Been - Alone, As All Must Be, I Said Within My Heart, Whether They Work Together Or Apart.

Love Has Earth To Which She Clings.

Courage Is Of The Heart By Derivation, And Great It Is. But Fear Is Of The Soul.

Something There Is That Doesn't Love A Wall, And Wants It Down.

The Only Way Around Is Through.

God Turned To Speak To Me (don't Anybody Laugh); God Found I Wasn't There At Least Not Over Half.

The Figure A Poem Makes. It Begins In Delight And Ends In Wisdom.

What An Exciting Age It Is We Live In With All This Talk About The Hope Of Youth And Nothing Made Of Youth.

Democracy Is The Best Chance For The Best People.

What You Want, What You're Hanging Around In The World Waiting For, Is For Something To Occur To You.

Some Spirit To Stand Simply Forth, Heroic In Its Nakedness, Against The Uttermost Of Earth.

All There Is To Writing Is Having Ideas. To Learn To Write Is To Learn To Have Ideas.

If One By One We Counted People Out

God Once Declared He Was True And Then Took The Veil And Withdrew.

Don't Ever Take A Fence Down Until You Know Why It Was Put Up.

Not To Sink Under Being Man And Wife, But Get Some Color And Music Out Of Life?

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.

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.

The Best Way Out Is Always Through.

You Have Freedom When You're Easy In Your Harness.

Scholars And Artists Thrown Together Are Often Annoyed At The Puzzle Of Where They Differ. Both Work From Knowledge; But I Suspectthey Differ Most Importantly In The Way Their Knowledge Is Come By. Scholars Get Theirs With Conscientious Thoroughness Along Projected Lines Of Logic; Poets Theirs Cavalierly And As It Happens In And Out Of Books. They Stick To Nothing Deliberately, But Let What Will Stick To Them Like Burrs Where They Walk In The Fields.

Do You Know, Considering The Market, There Are More Poems Produced Than Any Other Thing? No Wonder Poets Sometimes Have To Seem So Much More Businesslike Than Businessmen. Their Wares Are So Much Harder To Get Rid Of.

In Three Words I Can Sum Up Everything I've Learned About Life: It Goes On.

My Definition Of Poetry (if I Were Forced To Give One) Would Be This: Words That Have Become Deeds.

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.

And One Of The Three Great Things In The World Is Gossip, You Know. First There's Religion; And Then There's Science; And There's-and Then There's Friendly Gossip. Those Are The Three-the Three Great Things.

I'd Like To Go By Climbing A Birch Tree~ And Climb Black Branches Up A Snow-white Trunk Toward Heaven, Till The Tree Could Bear No More, But Dipped Its Top And Set Me Down Again. That Would Be Good Both Going And Coming Back. One Could Do Worse Than Be A Swinger Of Birches.

... A Nation Has To Take Its Natural Course Of Progress Round And Round In Circles From King To Mob To King To Mob To King Until The Eddy Of It Eddies Out.

Haven't You Heard, Though, About The Ships Where War Has Found Them Out At Sea, About The Towns Where War Has Come Through Opening Clouds At Night With Droning Speed Further O'erhead Than All But Stars And Angels And Children In The Ships And In The Towns?

We Dance Round In A Ring And Suppose, But The Secret Sits In The Middle And Knows.

"if It Were A Dog, It Would Have Bitten You Already." Actual Twents: "at E Ne Hond Was, Dan E Oew Allange Ebettene." Meaning: Said To Someone Who Is Looking For Something Which Is Right Under His Nose. Source: Twents Woordenbook. Twents In Woord En Gebruik.

The Afternoon Knows What The Morning Never Suspected.

Of Course There Is Matter For Remark In Poems. Nobody Denies That. But It Must Be Solemnly Laid On Everybody In This World To Make His Own Observations And Remarks. That's What We Mean By Thinking, And That's About All We Mean. A Teacher Says To A Pupil "watch Me Notice A Few Things In The Next Few Months: Let's See You Notice A Few Things Too."

The Trees That Have It In Their Pent-up Buds To Darken Nature And Be Summer Woods.

The Ear Is The Only True Writer And The Only True Reader.

As A Confirmed Astronomer I'm Always For A Better Sky.

For Hard It Is To Keep From Being King When It's In You And In The Situation.

The City Is All Right. To Live In One Is To Be Civilized, Stay Up And Read Or Sing And Dance All Night And See Sunrise By Waiting Up Instead Of Getting Up.

The People I Am Most Afraid Of Are Those Who Are The Most Afraid.

Tolerance Is The Uncomfortable Feeling That In The End The Other Could Be Right.

Uncomfortable Feeling

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.

Summary Riposte To The Dreary Wail There's No Knowing What Love Is All About. Poets Know A Lot.

One Of The Hardest Things In Life To Accept Is A Called Third Strike.

I'd Just As Soon Play Tennis With The Net Down.

The Worst Disease Which Can Afflict Executives In Their Work Is Not, As Popularly Supposed, Alcoholism; It's Egotism.

Let Those Possess The Land, And Only Those, Who Love It With A Love So Strong And Stupid That They May Be Abused And Taken Advantage Of And Made Fun Of By Business, Law, And Art.

Such Heaps Of Broken Glass To Sweep Away / You'd Think The Inner Dome Of Heaven Had Fallen.

The Snake Stood Up For Evil In The Garden.

It's God - I Recognised Him From Blake's Picture.

Poets Need Not Go To Niagara To Write About The Force Of Falling Water.

What Is Done Is Done For The Love Of It- Or Not Really Done At All.

Education Is Hanging Around Until You've Caught On.

A Poem Begins As A Lump In The Throat, A Sense Of Wrong, A Homesickness, A Lovesickness.

Men Work Together, Whether They Work Together Or Apart.

Working Together

All Thought Is A Feat Of Association; Having What's In Front Of You Bring Up Something In Your Mind That You Almost Didn't Know You Knew

Space Ails Us Moderns: We Are Sick With Space.

Freedom Lies In Being Bold.

We Cannot Tell Some People What It Is Believe, Partly Because They Are Too Stupid To Understand, Partly Because We Are Too Proudly Vague To Explain.

Every Poem Is A Momentary Stay Against The Confusion Of The World.

The Reason Why Worry Kills More People Than Work Is That More People Worry Than Work.

I Have Been One Acquainted With The Night. I Have Walked Out In Rain - And Back In Rain. I Have Outwalked The Furthest City Light. I Have Looked Down The Saddest City Lane. I Have Passed By The Watchman On His Beat And Dropped My Eyes, Unwilling To Explain.

It Is Absurd To Think That The Only Way To Tell If A Poem Is Lasting Is To Wait And See If It Lasts. The Right Reader Of A Good Poem Can Tell The Moment It Strikes Him That He Has Taken An Immortal Wound-that He Will Never Get Over It.

Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know. His House Is In The Village Though; He Will Not See Me Stopping Here To Watch His Woods Fill Up With Snow.

Education Is The Ability To Listen To Almost Anything Without Losing Your Temper Or Your Self-confidence.

Now Close The Windows And Hush All The Fields: If The Trees Must, Let Them Silently Toss.

Before Now Poetry Has Taken Notice Of Wars, And What Are Wars But Politics Transformed From Chronic To Acute And Bloody?

The Only Way Out Is To Go Through

Let's Get My Incantation Right: "i Wish I May, I Wish I Might" Give Earth Another Satellite.

The Line-storm Clouds Fly Tattered And Swift, The Road Is Forlorn All Day, Where A Myriad Snowy Quartz Stones Lift, And The Hoof-prints Vanish Away. The Roadside Flowers, Too Wet For The Bee, Expend Their Bloom In Vain. Come Over The Hills And Far With Me, And Be My Love In The Rain.

My Sorrow, When She's Here With Me, Thinks These Dark Days Of Autumn Rain Are Beautiful As Days Can Be; She Loves The Bare, The Withered Tree; She Walks The Sodden Pasture Lane.

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.

Poetry Is A Reaching Out Forward Expression, An Effort To Find Fulfillment

Poetry Should Be Common In Experience But Uncommon In Books.

There Are Three Things, After All, That A Poem Must Reach: The Eye, The Ear, And What We May Call The Heart Or The Mind. It Is The Most Important Of All To Reach The Heart Of The Reader.

There's Nothing I'm Afraid Of Like Scared People.

Nothing Can Make Injustice Just But Mercy.

The Truly Educated Can Listen To Any View Without Losing Their Temper Or Self-confidence.

Self Confidence

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.

Nations Like The Cuban And The Swiss Can Never Hope To Wage A Global Mission. No Holy Wars For Them. The Most The Small Can Ever Give Us Is A Nuisance Brawl.

Happiness Makes Up In Height For What It Lacks In Length.

Nature's Never Quite Sure She Hasn't Erred In Her Vague Design.

I See For Nature No Defeat In One Tree's Overthrow Or For Myself In My Retreat For Yet Another Blow.

The Test Is Always How We Treat The Poor.

The Woods Are Lovely, Dark, And Deep But I Have Promises To Keep...

Memento Mori And Obey The Lord. Art And Religion Love The Somber Chord.

Forgive Me My Nonsense, As I Also Forgive The Nonsense Of Those That Think They Talk Sense.

You Can't Get Too Much Winter In The Winter.

Oh, Give Us Pleasure In The Orch-ard White, Like Nothing Else By Day, Like Ghosts By Night.

But Not Gold In Commercial Quantities, Just Enough Gold To Make The Engagement Rings And Marriage Rings Of Those Who Owned The Farm. What Gold More Innocent Could One Have Asked For?

The Beauty Of Enmity Is Insecurity; The Beauty Of Friendship Is In Security.

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.

Time And Tide Wait For No Man, But Time Always Stands Still For A Woman Of 30.

Don't Be An Agnostic. Be Something.

Americans Are Like A Rich Father Who Wishes He Knew How To Give His Son The Hardships That Made Him Rich.

I Fail To See What Fun, What Satisfaction / A God Can Find In Laughing At How Badly / Men Fumble At The Possibilities.

Loosely Bound By Countless Silken Ties Of Love And Thought To Everything On Earth The Compass Round

The Brain Is A Wonderful Organ; It Starts Working The Moment You Get Up In The Morning And Does Not Stop Until You Get Into The Office.

Poetry Is About The Grief. Politics Is About The Grievance.

The Fact Is The Sweetest Dream That Labor Knows.

The Old Dog Barks Backward Without Getting Up I Can Remember When He Was A Pup.

What Are We? Young Or New? We Must Be Something.

Fireflies In The Garden By Robert Frost 1874–1963 Here Come Real Stars To Fill The Upper Skies, And Here On Earth Come Emulating Flies, That Though They Never Equal Stars In Size, (and They Were Never Really Stars At Heart) Achieve At Times A Very Star-like Start. Only, Of Course, They Can't Sustain The Part.

There Is One Thing More Exasperating Than A Wife Who Can Cook And Won't, And That's A Wife Who Can't Cook And Will.

I Hope To Leave Behind A Few Poems It Will Be Hard To Get Rid Of.

A Diplomat Is A Man Who Always Remembers A Woman's Birthday But Never Remembers Her Age.

I Could Define Poetry This Way: It Is That Which Is Lost Out Of Both Prose And Verse In Translation.

The Reason Artists Show So Little Interest In Public Freedom Is Because The Freedom They've Come To Feel The Need Of Is A Kind No One Can Give Them They Can Scarce Attain The Freedom Of Their Own Material.

Than Smoke And Mist Who Better Could Appraise The Kindred Spirit Of An Inner Haze?

I Was Under Twenty When I Deliberately Put It To Myself One Night After Good Conversation That There Are Moments When We Actually Touch In Talk What The Best Writing Can Only Come Near. The Curse Of Our Book Language Is Not So Much That It Keeps Forever To The Same Set Phrases . . . But That It Sounds Forever With The Same Reading Tones. We Must Go Out Into The Vernacular For Tones That Haven't Been Brought To Book.

Good Fences Make Good Neighbors.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

Mind Your Own Business

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.

Most Of The Change We Think We See In Life Is Due To Truths Being In And Out Of Favor.

Families Break Up When They Get Hints You Don't Intend And Miss Hints That You Do.

One Of The Lies Would Make It Out That Nothing Ever Presents Itself Before Us Twice. Where Would We Be At Last If That Were So? Our Very Life Depends On Everything's Recurring Till We Answer From Within.

Man That Is Of Woman Born Is Apt To Be As Vain Has His Mother.

There Is Little Much Beyond The Grave, But The Strong Are Saying Nothing Until They See.

The Heart Can Think Of No Devotion Greater Than Being Shore To The Ocean- Holding The Curve Of One Position, Counting An Endless Repetition.

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.

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.

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.

It's A Funny Thing That When A Man Hasn't Anything On Earth To Worry About, He Goes Off And Gets Married.

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.

Our Lives Laid Down In War And Peace May Not Be Found Acceptable In Heaven's Sight. And That They May Be Is The Only Prayer Worth Praying. May My Sacrifice Be Found Acceptable In Heaven's Sight.

I Have Remained Resentful To This Day When Any But Myself Presumed To Say That There Was Anything I Couldn't Be.

The People I Want To Hear About Are The People Who Take Risks.

A Poem Begins With A Lump In The Throat; A Homesickness Or A Love Sickness. It Is A Reaching-out Toward Expression; An Effort To Find Fulfillment. A Complete Poem Is One Where An Emotion Has Found Its Thought And The Thought Has Found Words.

One Age Is Like Another For The Soul.

There Is The Fear That We Shan't Prove Worthy In The Eyes Of Someone Who Knows Us At Least As Well As We Know Ourselves. That Is The Fear Of God. And There Is The Fear Of Man -fear That Men Won't Understand Us And We Shall Be Cut Of From Them.

States Strong Enough To Do Good Are But Few. Their Number Would Seem Limited To Three.

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.

A Definite Purpose, Like Blinders On A Horse, Inevitably Narrows Its Possessor's Point Of View.

I Have Wished A Bird Would Fly Away, And Not Sing By My House All Day.

Trust Him To Have His Bitter Politics Against His Unacquaintances The Rich Who Sleep In Houses Of Their Own, Though Mortgaged. Conservatives, They Don't Know What To Save.

And Were An Epitaph To Be My Story I'd Have A Short One Ready For My Own. I Would Have Written Of Me On My Stone: I Had A Lover's Quarrel With The World.

There Would Be More Than Ocean-water Broken Before God's Last Put Out The Light Was Spoken.

I Have Miles To Go Before I Sleep.

It Was Far In The Sameness Of The Wood; I Was Running With Joy On The Demon's Trail, Though I Knew What I Hunted Was No True God.

Oh, Give Us Pleasure In The Flowers To-day; And Give Us Not To Think So Far Away As The Uncertain Harvest; Keep Us Here All Simply In The Springing Of The Year. Oh, Give Us Pleasure In The Orchard White, Like Nothing Else By Day, Like Ghosts By Night; And Make Us Happy In The Happy Bees, The Swarm Dilating Round The Perfect Trees.

I Am Sure I Have Heard This Several Times From Places I Can't Recall, But It's Not Already In The Gaia Quotes Database, So I Add This Profound Insight From The Fields Of Psychological Healing And Spiritual Evolution. It Sure Has Helped Me.

No, In Country Money, The Country Scale Of Gain, The Requisite Lift Of Spirit Has Never Been Found.

Nature's First Green Is Gold, Her Hardest Hue To Hold. Her Early Leaf's A Flower; But Only So An Hour. Then Leaf Subsides To Leaf. So Eden Sank To Grief, So Dawn Goes Down To Day. Nothing Gold Can Stay.

A Poet Must Never Make A Statement Simply Because It Sounds Poetically Exciting; He Must Also Believe It To Be True." - W. H. Auden "a Poem...begins As A Lump In The Throat, A Sense Of Wrong, A Homesickness, A Lovesickness...it Finds The Thought And The Thought Finds The Words.

The Footpath Down To The Well Is Healed.

I Still Say The Only Education Worth Anything Is Self-education.

I Never Take My Own Side In A Quarrel.

One Luminary Clock Against The Sky Proclaimed The Time Was Neither Wrong Nor Right.

I Play Better Tennis Because The Court Is There.

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.

Anything More Than The Truth Would Have Seemed Too Weak.

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.

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.

My Goal In Life Is To Unite My Avocation With My Vocation, As My Two Eyes Make One In Sight.

For I Have Had Too Much Of Apple-picking:i Am Overtired Of The Great Harvest I Myself Desired.

A Poet Never Takes Notes. You Never Take Notes In A Love Affair.

The Difference Between A Job And A Career Is The Difference Between Forty And Sixty Hours A Week.

There Are Tones Of Voices That Mean More Than Words.

But This We Know, The Obstacle That Checked And Tripped The Body, Shot The Spirit On Further Than Target Ever Showed Or Shone.

They Would Not Find Me Changed From Him They Knew - Only More Sure Of All I Thought Was True.

You Can Be A Little Ungrammatical If You Come From The Right Part Of The Country.

If The Day Ever Comes When They Know Who They Are, They May Know Better Where They Are.

I Go To School The Youth To Learn The Future.

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