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.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time, unobscured by the dust of history.

A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.

The way a crow Shook down on me. The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood. And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

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