But strictly held by none, is loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To everything on earth the compass round, And only by one's going slightly taut In the capriciousness of summer air Is of the slightest bondage made aware.

The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people.

For I have had too much Of apple-picking:I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.

A definite purpose, like blinders on a horse, inevitably narrows its possessor's point of view.

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.

I never dared to be radical when young for fear it would make me conservative when old.

Poets like Shakespeare know more about poetry than any $25 an hour man.