Poetry is play. I'd even rather have you think of it as a sport. For instance, like football.

I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.

What we live by we die by.

Freud was way off base in considering sex the fundamental motivation. The ruling passion in men is minding each other's business.

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.

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.

The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.