One of the hardest things in life to accept is a called third strike.
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Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
There are three things, after all, that a poem must reach: the eye, the ear, and what we may call the heart or the mind. It is the most important of all to reach the heart of the reader.
Life songs of ages, throbbing in my blood, have danced the rhythm of the tide and flood.
It is the same life that emerges in joy through the dust of the earth into numberless waves of flower.
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