Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better.
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.
Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.
Something we were withholding made us weak, until we found it was ourselves.
No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.
The only way round is through.