I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.

The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom.

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.

There is one thing more exasperating than a wife who can cook and won't, and that's a wife who can't cook and will.

As it is more blessed to receive, so it must be more blessed to receive than to give back.

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.

A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.