Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.

The only certain freedom's in departure.

Thinking is not to agree or disagree. That's voting.

The first thing I do in the morning is to make my bed and while I am making up my bed I am making up my mind as to what kind of a day I am going to have.

Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these She a window flower And he a winter breeze.

Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.