Every word was once a poem.
We can see well into the past; we can guess shrewdly into the future, but that which is rolled up and muffled in impenetrable folds is today.
Poetry makes its own pertinence, and a single stanza outweighs a book of prose.
As we grow old, the beauty steals inward.
Good bye, proud world! I'm going home; Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine
Let the river roll which way it will, cities will rise on its banks.