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But these are flowers that fly and all but sing: And now from having ridden out desire They lie closed over in the wind and cling Where wheels have freshly sliced the April mire.
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
Desire
Butterfly
Wheels
Closed
Mire
Flowers
Sliced
Sing
Freshly
Flower
Ridden
Wind
Cling
Lying
April
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The sidelong glance is what you depend on.
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If the writer does not cry, the reader does not cry.
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I don't like to see things on purpose. I like them to soak in. A friend . . . asked me to go to the top of the Empire State Building once, and I told him that he shouldn't treat New York as a sight-it's feeling, an emotional experience. And the same with every place else.
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To be social is to be forgiving.
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Now no joy but lacks salt That is not dashed with pain And weariness and fault I crave the stain Of tears, the aftermark Of almost too much love, The sweet of bitter bark And burning clove.
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You have freedom when you're easy in your harness.
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For I thought Epicurus and Lucretius By Nature meant the Whole Goddam Machinery.
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A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.
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Nature's first green is gold.
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I never take my own side in a quarrel.
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