A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain.

I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.

How many things have to happen to you before something occurs to you?

When I see birches bend to left and right... I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

The chance is the remotest, Of its going much longer unnoticed, That I'm not keeping pace With the headlong human race

Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.

Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these She a window flower And he a winter breeze.