Two Roads Diverged In A Yellow Wood,

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.

The Difference Between A Man And His Valet: They Both Smoke The Same Cigars, But Only One Pays For Them.

Our Life Runs Down In Sending Up The Clock. The Brook Runs Down In Sending Up Our Life. The Sun Runs Down In Sending Up The Brook. And There Is Something Sending Up The Sun.

A Poem Begins As A Lump In The Throat, A Sense Of Wrong, A Homesickness, A Lovesickness.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.