See the last orange roses, how they blow / Deeper and heavier than in their prime, / In one defiant flame before they go.

I have come to the conclusion, after many years of sometimes sad experience, that you cannot come to any conclusion at all.

Prose is a poor thing, a poor inadequate thing, compared with poetry which says so much more in shorter time.

I do not like January very much. It is too stationary. Not enough happens. I like the evidences of life, and in January there are too few of them.

I suppose the pleasure of the country life lies really in the eternally renewed evidences of the determination to live. That is a truism when said, but anything but a truism when daily observed. Nothing shows up the difference between the thing said or read, so much as the daily experience of it.

Not seeing is half-believing.

But you, oh gardener, poet that you be / Though unaware, now use your seeds like words / And make them lilt with color nicely flung.