The nearest friends can go With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all.
States strong enough to do good are but few. Their number would seem limited to three.
That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.
Nothing not built with hands of course is sacred. But here is not a question of what's sacred; Rather of what to face or run away from. I'd hate to be a runaway from nature.
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.
Let me be the one To do what is done.
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.
We're either nothing or a God's regret.
For I thought Epicurus and Lucretius By Nature meant the Whole Goddam Machinery.
When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't hoed, And shout from where I am, What is it? No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit.
Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow.
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.
I am not a nature poet. There is almost always a person in my poems.
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.
Belief is better than anything else, and it is best when rapt - above paying its respects to anybody's doubt whatsoever.
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?
What is this talked-of mystery of birth. But being mounted bareback on the earth?
How are we to write The Russian novel in America As long as life goes so unterribly?
The difference between a man and his valet: they both smoke the same cigars, but only one pays for them.
New is a word for fools in towns who think Style upon style in dress and thought at last Must get somewhere.
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.
The truth is the river flows into the canyon Of Ceasing-to-Question-What-Doesn't-Concern-Us, As sooner or later we have to cease somewhere.
But what would interest you about the brook, It's always cold in summer, warm in winter.
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.
Americans are like a rich father who wishes he knew how to give his son the hardships that made him rich.
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