There may be a time when we'll attend Weather Theaters to recall the sensation of rain.

The tree the tempest with a crash of woodThrows down in front of us is not to barOur passage to our journey's end for good,But just to ask us who we think we are.

You can't get too much winter in the winter.

I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.

The Vermont mountains stretch extended straight; New Hampshire mountains curl up in a coil.

The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to the ocean- Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition.