The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day.

Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance.

Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same for love.

Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better.

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.

I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.