Before I Built A Wall I'd Ask

Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know. His House Is In The Village Though; He Will Not See Me Stopping Here To Watch His Woods Fill Up With Snow.

All There Is To Writing Is Having Ideas. To Learn To Write Is To Learn To Have Ideas.

In A Glass Of Cider It Seemed I Was A Mite Of Sediment That Waited For The Bottom To Ferment So I Could Catch A Bubble In Ascent. I Rode Up On One Till The Bubble Burst, And When That Left Me To Sink Back Reversed I Was No Worse Off Than I Was At First. I'd Catch Another Bubble If I Waited. The Thing Was To Get Now And Then Elated.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting.

The Vermont Mountains Stretch Extended Straight; New Hampshire Mountains Curl Up In A Coil.