Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler,long I stood And looked down one as far as I could;To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill. You know how it is with an April day. When the sun is out and the wind is still, You're one month on in the middle of May. But if you so much as dare to speak, a cloud come over the sunlit arch, And wind comes off a frozen peak, And you're two months back in the middle of March.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orch-ard white, Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night.

Never discuss the poem you contemplate writing. It's like turning on the outside spigot. It takes all the pressure off the upstairs bathroom.

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