A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?
The ear is the only true writer and the only true reader.
The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.
An idea is a feat of association.
What is done is done for the love of it- or not really done at all.