I Often Say Of George Washington That

I Have Stood Still And Stopped The Sound Of Feet When Far Away An Interrupted Cry Came Over Houses From Another Street, But Not To Call Me Back Or Say Good-bye.

Nothing Is Quite Honest That Is Not Commercial, But Not Everything Commercial Is Honest.

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.

But Not Gold In Commercial Quantities, Just Enough Gold To Make The Engagement Rings And Marriage Rings Of Those Who Owned The Farm. What Gold More Innocent Could One Have Asked For?

I Could Define Poetry This Way: It Is That Which Is Lost Out Of Both Prose And Verse In Translation.