Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.
I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.
Nothing gold can stay.
The first thing I do in any town I come to is ask if it has a bookstore.
Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out.