A definite purpose, like blinders on a horse, inevitably narrows its possessor's point of view.

Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet When far away an interrupted cry Came over houses from another street, But not to call me back or say good-bye.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.

Style is less the man than the way a man takes himself.

All the fun is in how you say a thing.

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.