I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.
So when at times the mob is swayed To carry praise or blame too far, We may choose something like a star To stay our minds on and be staid.
The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But now the theory goes That the apple’s a rose, And the pear is, and so’s The plum, I suppose. The dear only knows What will next prove a rose. You, of course, are a rose But were always a rose.
A voice said, Look me in the stars And tell me truly, men of earth, If all the soul-and-body scars Were not too much to pay for birth.
Something sinister in the tone Told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone Somehow must have gotten abroad, Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God.
I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be.
You, of course, are a rose – But were always a rose.
I am one who has been acquainted with the night.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart.
A breeze discovered my open book And began to flutter the leaves to look.
The greatest thing in family life is to take a hint when a hint is intended-and not to take a hint when a hint isn’t intended.
Style is that which indicates how the writer takes himself and what he is saying. It is the mind skating circles around itself as it moves forward.
The chief reason for going to school is to get the impression fixed for life that there is a book side for everything.
If society fits you comfortably enough, you call it freedom.
Let him that is without stone among you cast the first thing he can lay his hands on.
Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes the pressure off the second.
Take care to sell your horse before he dies. The art of life is passing losses on.
I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.