I could define poetry this way: it is that which is lost out of both prose and verse in translation.

Good fences make good neighbors.

We can make a little order where we are, and then the big sweep of history on which we can have no effect doesn't overwhelm us. We do it with colors, with a garden, with the furnishings of a room, or with sounds and words. We make a little form, and we gain composure.

We ran as if to meet the moon.

I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in his own way.

Nature does not complete things. She is chaotic. Man must finish, and he does so by making a garden and building a wall.

Most of the change we think we see in life is due to truths being in and out of favor.