A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
The only way round is through.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.
I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in his own way.
Forgive me my nonsense, as I also forgive the nonsense of those that think they talk sense.
Education doesn't change life much. It just lifts trouble to a higher plane of regard.
