The rain to the wind said, You push and I'll pelt.' They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged - though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.

In spring more mortal singers than belongTo any one place cover us with song.Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng.

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

It looked as if a night of dark intent was coming, and not only a night, an age. Someone had better be prepared for rage.

Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.