There never was any heart truly great and generous, that was not also tender and compassionate.

He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors.

Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow.

I am one who has been acquainted with the night

Butterflies...flowers that fly and all but sing.

A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Freedom lies in being bold.