Robert Frost Quotes
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The ear is the only true writer and the only true reader. I know people who read without hearing the sentence sounds and they were the fastest readers. Eye readers we call them. They get the meaning by glances. But they are bad readers because they miss the best part of what a good writer puts into his work.
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Humor is the most engaging cowardice.
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Forgive me my nonsense, as I also forgive the nonsense of those that think they talk sense.
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God once declared He was true And then took the veil and withdrew....
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You can't trust God to be unmerciful. There you have the beginning of all wisdom.
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The Moon for all her light and grace Has never learned to know her place.
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I write to find out what I didn't know I knew.
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My definition of poetry (if I were forced to give one) would be this: words that have become deeds.
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Hell is a half-filled auditorium.
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I hope to leave behind a few poems it will be hard to get rid of.
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Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.
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Keep all ur troubles in ur own pocket. But, make sure that the pocket has a hole!
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Let cloud shapes swarm, / Let chaos storm, / I wait for form.
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If you remember only one thing I've said, remember that an idea is a feat of association, and the height of it is a good metaphor. If you have never made a good metaphor, then you don't know what it's all about.
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The sidelong glance is what you depend on.
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Two such as you with such a master speed, cannot be parted nor be swept away, from one another once you are agreed, that life is only life forevermore, together wing to wing and oar to oar.
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The best thing we're put here for's to see; The strongest thing that's given us to see with's a telescope. Someone in every town, seems to me, owes it to the town to keep one.
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It is absurd to think that the only way to tell if a poem is lasting is to wait and see if it lasts. The right reader of a good poem can tell the moment it strikes him that he has taken an immortal wound-that he will never get over it.
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An idea is a feat of association.
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But these are flowers that fly and all but sing: And now from having ridden out desire They lie closed over in the wind and cling Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
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Thinking isn't agreeing or disagreeing. That's voting.
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What is this talked-of mystery of birth. But being mounted bareback on the earth?
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I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice Some say when they are in voice And tossing so as to scare The white clouds over them on, I shall have less to say, But I shall be none.
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That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.