Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak.
When I see birches bend to left and right... I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
Nature's first green is gold.
What is done is done for the love of it- or not really done at all.
Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. . . . Read it a hundred times; it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.
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.