Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.

Nature's first green is gold.

When I see birches bend to left and right... I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.

I came from a very intellectual neighborhood. When we played cowboys and Indians as kids, I had to be Gandhi.

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. . . . Read it a hundred times; it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.

I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.