The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

At bottom the world isn't a joke. We only joke about it to avoid an issue with someone, to let someone know that we know he's there with his questions; to disarm him by seeming to have heard and done justice to his side of the standing argument.

I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.

The snake stood up for evil in the Garden.

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

Let him that is without stone among you cast the first thing he can lay his hands on.

Man that is of woman born is apt to be as vain has his mother.