I had a lovers quarrel with the world.
Education is hanging around until you’ve caught on.
No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard.
Nobody was ever meant, To remember or invent, What he did with every cent.
I go to school the youth to learn the future.
My sorrow, when she’s here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.