Quote

Talking is a hydrant in the yard and writing is a faucet upstairs in the house. Opening the first takes the pressure off the second.

Robert Frost

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Robert Frost
Age: 88 †
Born: 1874
Born: March 26
Died: 1963
Died: January 29
Pedagogue
Playwright
Poet
Writer
San Francisco County
California
Robert Lee Frost
Pressure
Second
Takes
Hydrant
Talking
Faucet
House
Upstairs
Firsts
Yard
First
Yards
Writing
Opening

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A civilized society is one which tolerates eccentricity to the point of doubtful sanity.
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I never take my own side in a quarrel.
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One of the hardest things in life to accept is a called third strike.
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Out alone in the winter rain, / Intent on giving and taking pain.
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Freedom is when you are easy in the harness.
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What we live by we die by.
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I could give all to Time except--except What I myself have held.
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I hate the idea that you ought to read the whole of anybody.
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One luminary clock against the sky Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
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I'm not a teacher, but an awakener.
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The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom... in a clarification of life - not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.
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They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars—on stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer home To scare myself with my own desert places.
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There is one thing more exasperating than a wife who can cook and won't, and that's a wife who can't cook and will.
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Summary riposte To the dreary wail There's no knowing what Love is all about. Poets know a lot.
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Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.
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Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can't, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.
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Live and let live, believe and let believe. 'Twas said the lesser gods were only traits Of the one awful God. Just so the saints Are God's white light refracted into colors.
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Of all crimes the worst Is to steal the glory From the great and brave, Even more accursed Than to rob the grave.
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I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart
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I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~ And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
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