Something there is that doesn't love a wall, and wants it down.

Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?

Poetry is the renewal of words, setting them free, and that's what a poet is doing: loosening the words.

Let him that is without stone among you cast the first thing he can lay his hands on.

By working faithfully eight hours a day you may eventually get to be boss and work twelve hours a day.

Poets need not go to Niagara to write about the force of falling water.

Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.