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.
Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
I've given offense by saying I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.
We ran as if to meet the moon.
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.
It's a funny thing that when a man hasn't anything on earth to worry about, he goes off and gets married.