The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.

I'd just as soon play tennis with the net down.

There are three things, after all, that a poem must reach: the eye, the ear, and what we may call the heart or the mind. It is the most important of all to reach the heart of the reader.

You can't get too much winter in the winter.

I have miles to go before I sleep.

A true sonnet goes eight lines and then takes a turn for better or worse and goes six or eight lines more.

Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak.