Something there is that doesn't love a wall, and wants it down.
I am a writer of books in retrospect. I talk in order to understand; I teach in order to learn.
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 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.
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.
The first thing I do in any town I come to is ask if it has a bookstore.
I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.
I have wished a bird would fly away, And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the door When it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me. The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be something wrong In wanting to silence any song.
What you want, what you're hanging around in the world waiting for, is for something to occur to you.
A breeze discovered my open book And began to flutter the leaves to look
I could give all to Time except--except What I myself have held.
The only way out is to go through
loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To everything on earth the compass round
When clever people ask me where I get a poem, I despair.
Never discuss the poem you contemplate writing. It's like turning on the outside spigot. It takes all the pressure off the upstairs bathroom.
You can be a little ungrammatical if you come from the right part of the country.
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.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
We ran as if to meet the moon.
The sister's face Fell all in wrinkles of responsibility. She wanted to do right. She'd have to think.
Education is hanging around until you've caught on.
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.
Loyalty is that for the lack of which your gang will shoot you without benefit of trial by jury.
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.
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.
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