What is this talked-of mystery of birth. But being mounted bareback on the earth?

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.

It's hard to get into this world and hard to get out of it, and what's in between doesn't make much sense.

Two such as you with such a master speed, cannot be parted nor be swept away, from one another once you are agreed, that life is only life forevermore, together wing to wing and oar to oar.

My definition of poetry (if I were forced to give one) would be this: words that have become deeds.

A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain.

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.