My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane. |
Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop? |
No memory of having starred atones for later disregard, or keeps the end from being hard. |
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader. |
No wonder poets sometimes have to seem/ So much more business-like than business men./ Their wares are so much harder to get rid of. |
Nobody was ever meant , To remember or invent , What he did with every cent. |
Nothing Gold Can Stay |
Oh I kept the first for another day Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if should ever come back. |
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers today; And give us not to think so far away As the uncertain harvest; keep us here All simply in the springing of the year. |
One aged man -- one man -- can't fill a house. |
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. |
Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country. |
Piling up knowledge is as bad as piling up money. You have to begin sometime to kick around what you know. |
Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat. |
Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance. |