If we couldn't laugh we would all go insane.
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.
Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.
We love the things we love for what they are.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.
To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.
The middle of the road is where the white line is - and that's the worst place to drive.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out.
Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.
How many things have to happen to you before something occurs to you?
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, and wants it down.
Thinking is not to agree or disagree. That's voting.
I'm not confused. I'm just well mixed.
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?
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.
Something we were withholding made us weak, until we found it was ourselves.
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.
You don't have to deserve your mother's love. You have to deserve your father s. He's more particular. The father is always a Republican towards his son, and his mother's always a Democrat.
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.
Love at the lips was touch As sweet as I could bear; And once that seemed too much; I lived on air.
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.
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.
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.
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