When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't hoed, And shout from where I am, What is it? No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit.

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

Forgive me my nonsense, as I also forgive the nonsense of those that think they talk sense.

The truly educated can listen to any view without losing their temper or self-confidence.

A breeze discovered my open book And began to flutter the leaves to look

If society fits you comfortably enough, you call it freedom.

And were an epitaph to be my story I'd have a short one ready for my own. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world.