There is the fear that we shan't prove worthy in the eyes of someone who knows us at least as well as we know ourselves. That is the fear of God. And there is the fear of Man -fear that men won't understand us and we shall be cut of from them.

Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow.

Poetry is the renewal of words, setting them free, and that's what a poet is doing: loosening the words.

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

So when at times the mob is swayed To carry praise or blame too far, We may choose something like a star To stay our minds on and be staid.

Now no joy but lacks salt That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.

It's a funny thing that when a man hasn't anything on earth to worry about, he goes off and gets married.