Robert Frost Quotes
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I have remained resentful to this day When any but myself presumed to say That there was anything I couldn't be.
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Before now poetry has taken notice Of wars, and what are wars but politics Transformed from chronic to acute and bloody?
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The best way for a person to have happy thoughts is to count his blessings and not his cash. Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.
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The footpath down to the well is healed.
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The strongest and most effective force in guaranteeing the long-term maintenance of power is not violence in all the forms deployed by the dominant to control the dominated, but consent in all the forms in which the dominated acquiesce in their own domination.
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The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.
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Time and tide wait for no man, but always stand still for a woman of thirty.
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Poetry begins in trivial metaphors, pretty metaphors, "grace" metaphors, and goes on to the profoundest thinking that we have. Poetry provides the one permissible way of saying one thing and meaning another. People say, "Why don’t you say what you mean?" We never do that, do we, being all of us too much poets. We like to talk in parables and in hints and in indirections — whether from diffidence or some other instinct.
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Meditate nothing. Learn to contemplate. Contemplate glory. There will be a light. Contemplate Truth until it burns your eyes out.
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The question that he frames in all but words is what to make of a diminished thing.
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Out alone in the winter rain, / Intent on giving and taking pain.
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There never was any heart truly great and generous, that was not also tender and compassionate.
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Let me be the one To do what is done.
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At bottom the world isn't a joke. We only joke about it to avoid an issue with someone, to let someone know that we know he's there with his questions; to disarm him by seeming to have heard and done justice to his side of the standing argument.
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Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these She a window flower And he a winter breeze ...
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Loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To everything on earth the compass round.
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Take care to sell your horse before he dies. The art of life is passing losses on.
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Now no joy but lacks salt .That is not dashed with pain and weariness and fault; I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
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In spring more mortal singers than belong To any one place cover us with song. Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng....
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You're searching, Joe, for things that don't exist; I mean beginnings. Ends and beginnings -- there are no such things. There are only middles.
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I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.
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Thinking is not to agree or disagree. That is voting.
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Fortunately, we don't need to know how bad an age is. There is something we can always be doing without reference to how good or bad the age is.
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Nobody was ever meant, To remember or invent, What he did with every cent.