Robert Frost

Two such as you with such a master speed, cannot be parted nor be swept away, from one another once you are agreed, that life is only life forevermore, together wing to wing and oar to oar.

You have freedom when you're easy in your harness.

God made a beauteous garden With lovely flowers strown, But one straight, narrow pathway That was not overgrown. And to this beauteous garden He brought mankind to live, And said "To you, my children, These lovely flowers I give. Prune ye my vines and fig trees, With care my flowers tend, But keep the pathway open Your home is at the end." God's Garden

'Warm in December, cold in June, you say?' _x000D_ _x000D_ I don't suppose the water's changed at all. _x000D_ _x000D_ You and I know enough to know it's warm _x000D_ _x000D_ Compared with cold, and cold compared with warm. _x000D_ _x000D_ But all the fun's in how you say a thing.

For, dear me, why abandon a belief, Merely because it ceases to be true, Cling to it long enough, and not a doubt, It will turn true again, for so it goes.

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

Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence.

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting.

A poem begins with a lump in the throat

The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office.

Always fall in with what you're asked to accept. Take what is given, and make it over your way. My aim in life has always been to hold my own with whatever's going. Not against: with.

But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.

Love is an irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.

There is the fear that we shan't prove worthy in the eyes of someone who knows us at least as well as we know ourselves. That is the fear of God. And there is the fear of Man -fear that men won't understand us and we shall be cut of from them.

Keats mourned that the rainbow, which as a boy had been for him a magic thing, had lost its glory because the physicists had found it resulted merely from the refraction of the sunlight by the raindrops. Yet knowledge of its causation could not spoil the rainbow for me. I am sure that it is not given to man to be omniscient. There will always be something left to know, something to excite the imagination of the poet and those attuned to the great world in which they live (p. 64)

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out.

Nearly everybody is looking for something brave to do. I don't know why people shouldn't write poetry. That's brave.

Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.

The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people.