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.

Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.

Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.

Dalai LamaSpiritual Leader

Elon MuskBusinessman