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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.

-Robert Frost

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Nations Like The Cuban

Robert Frost

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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.

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Hell Is A Half-filled Auditorium.

I Have Stood Still And Stopped The Sound Of Feet When Far Away An Interrupted Cry Came Over Houses From Another Street, But Not To Call Me Back Or Say Good-bye.

Humor Is The Most Engaging Cowardice.

Only God And I Knew What I Meant When I Wrote It, Now Only God Knows

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.

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.

Have I Not Walked Without An Upward Look Of Caution Under Stars That Very Well Might Not Have Missed Me When They Shot And Fell? It Was A Risk I Had To Take-and Took.

To Be A Poet Is A Condition, Not A Profession.

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

One Could Do Worse Than Be A Swinger Of Birches.

Freedom Lies In Being Bold.

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

How Many Things Have To Happen To You Before Something Occurs To You?

O Hushed October Morning Mild, Begin The Hours Of This Day Slow, Make The Day Seem To Us Less Brief... Retard The Sun With Gentle Mist; Enchant The Land With Amethyst.

When Clever People Ask Me Where I Get A Poem, I Despair.

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

What We Live By We Die By.

The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning Clove.

Keats Mourned That The Rainbow, Which As A Boy Had Been For Him A Magic Thing, Had Lost Its Glory Because The Physicists Had Found It Resulted Merely From The Refraction Of The Sunlight By The Raindrops. Yet Knowledge Of Its Causation Could Not Spoil The Rainbow For Me. I Am Sure That It Is Not Given To Man To Be Omniscient. There Will Always Be Something Left To Know, Something To Excite The Imagination Of The Poet And Those Attuned To The Great World In Which They Live (p. 64)

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

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.

The Middle Of The Road Is Where The White Line Is - And That's The Worst Place To Drive.

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?

The Best Way For A Person To Have Happy Thoughts Is To Count His Blessings And Not His Cash. Happiness Makes Up In Height For What It Lacks In Length.

No Memory Of Having Starred Atones For Later Disregard, Or Keeps The End From Being Hard.

There Never Was Any Heart Truly Great And Generous, That Was Not Also Tender And Compassionate.

The Greatest Thing In Family Life Is To Take A Hint When A Hint Is Intended-and Not To Take A Hint When A Hint Isn't Intended.

The Difference Between A Man And His Valet: They Both Smoke The Same Cigars, But Only One Pays For Them.

Before I Built A Wall I'd Ask To Know What I Was Walling In Or Walling Out.

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

Here Are Your Waters And Your Watering Place. Drink And Be Whole Again Beyond Confusion.

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.

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

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.

There Is Absolutely No Reason For Being Rushed Along With The Rush. Everybody Should Be Free To Go Slow.

Take Care To Sell Your Horse Before He Dies. The Art Of Life Is Passing Losses On.

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

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

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.

A Poem May Be Worked Over Once It Is In Being, But May Not Be Worried Into Being.

You Know How Cunningly Mankind Is Planned: We Have One Loving And One Hating Hand. The Loving's Made To Hold Each Other Like, While With The Hating Other Hand We Strike.

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

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

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.

Thinking Isn't Agreeing Or Disagreeing. That's Voting.

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

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.

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.

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

We Can Make A Little Order Where We Are, And Then The Big Sweep Of History On Which We Can Have No Effect Doesn't Overwhelm Us. We Do It With Colors, With A Garden, With The Furnishings Of A Room, Or With Sounds And Words. We Make A Little Form, And We Gain Composure.

A Successful Lawsuit Is The One Worn By A Policeman.

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.

Sarcastic Science, She Would Like To Know, In Her Complacent Ministry Of Fear, How We Propose To Get Away From Here When She Has Made Things So We Have To Go Or Be Wiped Out. Will She Be Asked To Show Us How By Rocket We May Hope To Steer To Some Star Off There, Say, A Half Light-year Through Temperature Of Absolute Zero? Why Wait For Science To Supply The How When Any Amateur Can Tell It Now? The Way To Go Away Should Be The Same As Fifty Million Years Ago We Came- If Anyone Remembers How That Was I Have A Theory, But It Hardly Does.

The Only Way Out Is Through.

Christian Inspirational

A Person Will Sometimes Devote All His Life To The Development Of One Part Of His Body - The Wishbone.

Nature Is Always Hinting At Us.

If We Couldn't Laugh We Would All Go Insane.

Unless I'm Wrong I But Obey The Urge Of A Song: I'm-bound-away! And I May Return If Dissatisfied With What I Learn From Having Died.

I Have Been One Acquainted With The Night. I Have Walked Out In Rain - And Back In Rain. I Have Out Walked 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. I Have Stood Still And Stopped The Sound Of Feet. When Far Away An Interrupted Cry Came Over Houses From Another Street, But Not To Call Me Back Or Say Good-bye; And Further Still At An Unearthly Light, One Luminary Clock Against The Sky Proclaimed The Time Was Neither Wrong Nor Right. I Have Been One Acquainted With The Night.

I Hate The Idea That You Ought To Read The Whole Of Anybody.

The Vermont Mountains Stretch Extended Straight; New Hampshire Mountains Curl Up In A Coil.

At Bottom The World Isn't A Joke. We Only Joke About It To Avoid An Issue With Someone, To Let Someone Know That We Know He's There With His Questions; To Disarm Him By Seeming To Have Heard And Done Justice To His Side Of The Standing Argument.

What Makes A Nation In The Beginning Is A Good Piece Of Geography.

Fortunately, We Don't Need To Know How Bad An Age Is. There Is Something We Can Always Be Doing Without Reference To How Good Or Bad The Age Is.

The Question That He Frames In All But Words Is What To Make Of A Diminished Thing.

I Don't Like To See Things On Purpose. I Like Them To Soak In. A Friend . . . Asked Me To Go To The Top Of The Empire State Building Once, And I Told Him That He Shouldn't Treat New York As A Sight-it's Feeling, An Emotional Experience. And The Same With Every Place Else.

The Footpath Down To The Well Is Healed.

The Best Thing We're Put Here For's To See; The Strongest Thing That's Given Us To See With's A Telescope. Someone In Every Town, Seems To Me, Owes It To The Town To Keep One.

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

The Rose Is A Rose, And Was Always A Rose. But The Theory Now Goes That The Apple's A Rose.

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.

What Is This Talked-of Mystery Of Birth. But Being Mounted Bareback On The Earth?

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

A Breeze Discovered My Open Book And Began To Flutter The Leaves To Look

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

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.

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

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

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

A Voice Said, Look Me In The Stars And Tell Me Truly, Men Of Earth, If All The Soul-and-body Scars Were Not Too Much To Pay For Birth.

A Liberal Is A Man Too Broadminded To Take His Own Side In A Quarrel.

One Age Is Like Another For The Soul.

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

To Time It Never Seems That He Is Brave To Set Himself Against The Peaks Of Snow To Lay Them Level With The Running Wave, Nor Is He Overjoyed When They Lie Low, But Only Grave, Contemplative And Grave.

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

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.

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.

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

Education Is Hanging Around Until You've Caught On.

Everything Written Is As Good As It Is Dramatic. It Need Not Declare Itself In Form, But It Is Drama Or Nothing.

The Tree The Tempest With A Crash Of Wood Throws Down In Front Of Us Is Not To Bar Our Passage To Our Journey's End For Good, But Just To Ask Us Who We Think We Are.

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.

New Is A Word For Fools In Towns Who Think Style Upon Style In Dress And Thought At Last Must Get Somewhere.

Something We Were Withholding Made Us Weak, Until We Found It Was Ourselves.

Humour Is The Most Engaging Cowardice. With It Myself I Have Been Able To Hold Some Of My Enemy In Play Far Out Of Gunshot.

Love At The Lips Was Touch As Sweet As I Could Bear; And Once That Seemed Too Much; I Lived On Air.

Life Is Tons Of Discipline. Your First Discipline Is Your Vocabulary; Then Your Grammar And Your Punctuation Then, In Your Exuberance And Bounding Energy You Say You're Going To Add To That. Then You Add Rhyme And Meter. And Your Delight Is In That Power.

It Is Only A Moment Here And A Moment There That The Greatest Writer Has. Some Cognizance Of The Fact Must Be Taken In Your Teaching.

Writing A Poem Is Discovering.

Lord, I Have Loved Your Sky, Be It Said Against Or For Me, Have Loved It Clear And High, Or Low And Stormy...

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.

A True Sonnet Goes Eight Lines And Then Takes A Turn For Better Or Worse And Goes Six Or Eight Lines More.

When Work Becomes Play, And Play Becomes Your Work, Your Life Unfolds.

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

It's Hard To Get Into This World And Hard To Get Out Of It, And What's In Between Doesn't Make Much Sense.

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.

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.

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.

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

Home Is The Place Where, When You Have To Go There, They Have To Take You In.

Men Work Together, Whether They Work Together Or Apart.

Working Together

Poetry Begins In Trivial Metaphors, Pretty Metaphors, "grace" Metaphors, And Goes On To The Profoundest Thinking That We Have. Poetry Provides The One Permissible Way Of Saying One Thing And Meaning Another. People Say, "why Don’t You Say What You Mean?" We Never Do That, Do We, Being All Of Us Too Much Poets. We Like To Talk In Parables And In Hints And In Indirections - Whether From Diffidence Or Some Other Instinct.

I Could Give All To Time Except--except What I Myself Have Held.

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.

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.

I Turned To Speak To God About The World's Despair But To Make Bad Matters Worse I Found God Wasn't There.

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.

The Sun Was Warm But The Wind Was Chill. You Know How It Is With An April Day. When The Sun Is Out And The Wind Is Still, You're One Month On In The Middle Of May. But If You So Much As Dare To Speak, A Cloud Come Over The Sunlit Arch, And Wind Comes Off A Frozen Peak, And You're Two Months Back In The Middle Of March.

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.

The Chance Is The Remotest, Of Its Going Much Longer Unnoticed, That I'm Not Keeping Pace With The Headlong Human Race

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.

Nobody Was Ever Meant, To Remember Or Invent, What He Did With Every Cent.

Nothing Is Quite Honest That Is Not Commercial, But Not Everything Commercial Is Honest.

... War Is For Everyone, For Children Too. I Wasn't Going To Tell You And I Mustn't. The Best Way Is To Come Uphill With Me And Have Our Fire And Laugh And Be Afraid.

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

The Only Certain Freedom's In Departure.

You, Of Course, Are A Rose-- But Were Always A Rose.

Nor Is There Wanting In The Press Some Spirit To Stand Simply Forth, Heroic In It Nakedness, Against The Uttermost Of Earth. The Tale Of Earth's Unhonored Things Sounds Nobler There Than 'neath The Sun; And The Mind Whirls And The Heart Sings, And A Shout Greets The Daring One.

Sentences Are Not Different Enough To Hold The Attention Unless They Are Dramatic. No Ingenuity Of Varying Structure Will Do. All That Can Save Them Is The Speaking Tone Of Voice Somehow Entangled In The Words And Fastened To The Page For The Ear Of The Imagination. That Is All That Can Save Poetry From Sing-song, All That Can Save Prose From Itself.

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.

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.

Let Him That Is Without Stone Among You Cast The First Thing He Can Lay His Hands On.

We Ran As If To Meet The Moon.

I Wonder About The Trees. Why Do We Wish To Bear Forever The Noise Of These More Than Another Noise So Close To Our Dwelling Place?

"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.

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.

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

Bounds Should Be Set To Ingenuity For Being So Cruel In Bringing Change Unheralded On The Unready.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

(soft Petals, Yes, But Not So Barren Quite, Mingled With These, Smooth Bean And Wrinkled Pea;) And Go Along With You Ere You Lose Sight Of What You Came For And Become Like Me, Slave To A Springtime Passion For The Earth. How Love Burns Through The Putting In The Seed On Through The Watching For That Early Birth When, Just As The Soil Tarnishes With Weed, The Sturdy Seedling With Arched Body Comes Shouldering Its Way And Shedding The Earth Crumbs.

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

You're Always Believing Ahead Of Your Evidence. What Was The Evidence I Could Write A Poem? I Just Believed It. The Most Creative Thing In Us Is To Believe In A Thing.

But I Have Promises To Keep, And Miles To Go Before I Sleep, And Miles To Go Before I Sleep.

Poetry Should Be Common In Experience But Uncommon In Books.

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

The Sister's Face Fell All In Wrinkles Of Responsibility. She Wanted To Do Right. She'd Have To Think.

Love Has Earth To Which She Clings.

But These Are Flowers That Fly And All But Sing: And Now From Having Ridden Out Desire They Lie Closed Over In The Wind And Cling Where Wheels Have Freshly Sliced The April Mire.

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.

I Hold It To Be The Inalienable Right Of Anybody To Go To Hell In His Own Way.

College Is A Refuge From Hasty Judgment.

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.

You've Got To Love What's Lovable, And Hate What's Hateable. It Takes Brains To See The Difference.

Poetry Is The Renewal Of Words, Setting Them Free, And That's What A Poet Is Doing: Loosening The Words.

I Go To School The Youth To Learn The Future.

The Poet, As Everyone Knows, Must Strike His Individual Note Sometime Between The Ages Of Fifteen And Twenty-five. He May Hold It A Long Time, Or A Short Time, But It Is Then That He Must Strike It Or Never. School And College Have Been Conducted With The Almost Express Purpose Of Keeping Him Busy With Something Else Till The Danger Of His Ever Creating Anything Is Past.

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.

I'm Not A Teacher, But An Awakener.

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.

Nothing Gold Can Stay.

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

I Think I Know Enough Of Hate To Say That For Destruction Ice Is Also Great And Would Suffice.

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

I'm Always Saying Something That's Just The Edge Of Something More.

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.

Forgive, O Lord, My Little Jokes On Thee, And I'll Forgive Thy Great Big Joke On Me.

One Aged Man - One Man - Can't Fill A House.

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

Courage Is In The Air In Bracing Whiffs Better Than All The Stalemate An's And Ifs.

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

The Moon For All Her Light And Grace Has Never Learned To Know Her Place.

The Land Was Ours Before We Were The Land's. She Was Our Land More Than A Hundred Years Before We Were Her People.

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.

In Heaven We Are All Ghostwriters, If We Write At All.

All Great Things Are Done For Their Own Sake.

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

The Snake Stood Up For Evil In The Garden.

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

... 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.

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

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.

Two Roads Diverged In A Wood And I - I Took The One Less Traveled By, And That Has Made All The Difference.

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

I Cut My Own Hair. I Got Sick Of Barbers Because They Talk Too Much. And Too Much Of Their Talk Was About My Hair Coming Out.

Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation.

Poetry Is When An Emotion Has Found Its Thought And The Thought Has Found Words.

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

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

All The Fun Is In How You Say A Thing.

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.

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

The First Thing I Do In Any Town I Come To Is Ask If It Has A Bookstore.

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

If Society Fits You Comfortably Enough, You Call It Freedom.

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