The rain to the wind said, You push and I'll pelt.' They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged--though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.
You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.
Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.
You have freedom when you're easy in your harness.
But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
My definition of poetry (if I were forced to give one) would be this: words that have become deeds.