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A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.
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You know how cunningly mankind is planned: We have one loving and one hating hand. The loving's made to hold each other like, While with the hating other hand we strike.
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No, in country money, the country scale of gain, The requisite lift of spirit has never been found....
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I have just been to a city in the West, a city full of poets, a city they have made safe for poets. The whole city is so lovely that you do not have to write it up to make it poetry; it is ready-made for you. But, I don't know - the poetry written in that city might not seem like poetry if read outside of the city. It would be like the jokes made when you were drunk; you have to get drunk again to appreciate them.
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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.
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A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.
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Of all crimes the worst Is to steal the glory From the great and brave, Even more accursed Than to rob the grave.
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The trees that have it in their pent-up buds To darken nature and be summer woods.
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The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength. To feel the earth as rough to all my length.
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Belief is better than anything else, and it is best when rapt - above paying its respects to anybody's doubt whatsoever.
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... A nation has to take its natural course Of Progress round and round in circles From King to Mob to King to Mob to King Until the eddy of it eddies out.
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Is due to truths being in and out of favor.
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GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?
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Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.
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An earthly dog of the carriage breed; Who, having failed of the modern speed, Now asked asylum and I was stirred To be the one so dog-preferred.
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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
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Education is hanging around until you've caught on.
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You can be a little ungrammatical if you come from the right part of the country.
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We get twitted now and then on how we made this country. Well, we took the whole business, of course. It's not just that corner that we took from Mexico. When we got it all together, we got a very shapely country-the best continental cut in all the world, between the two oceans and in the right temperature zone.
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Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance.