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

Far in the pillared dark Thrush music went- Almost like a call to come in To the dark and lament. But no, I was out for stars: I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.

Nearly everybody is looking for something brave to do. I don't know why people shouldn't write poetry. That's brave.

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

You have freedom when you're easy in your harness.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth.

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.