O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow, Make the day seem to us less brief... Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst.
A breeze discovered my open book And began to flutter the leaves to look
Two such as you with such a master speed Cannot be parted nor be swept away
The people I am most afraid of are those who are the most afraid.
Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance.
There are three things, after all, that a poem must reach: the eye, the ear, and what we may call the heart or the mind. It is the most important of all to reach the heart of the reader.