I end not far from my going forth,By picking the faded blue;Of the last remaining aster flower,To carry again to you.

Robert Frost

Lovers, forget your love And list to the love of these. She a window flower. And he a winter breeze.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart.

It is the same life that emerges in joy through the dust of the earth into numberless waves of flower.

The question that he frames in all but words is what to make of a diminished thing.

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.

Dalai LamaSpiritual Leader

Elon MuskBusinessman