A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes the pressure off the second.

And nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope.

It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage.

A poem begins with a lump in the throat

I have miles to go before I sleep.

Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.