My obsessions used to be my protectors, but now they have taken me prisoner.
Let Him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east.
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
The poetical language of an age should be the current language heightened.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the Stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behavior Of silk-sack clouds! Has wilder, willful-waiver Meal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?
Spring and Fall: To a Young Child Márgarét, are you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves, líke the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! ás the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sórrow's spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for.
We need anything politically important rationed out like Pez: small, sweet, and coming out of a funny, plastic head.
We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus, and nonbelievers.
It's much more acceptable for men to work and father kids. There's an inherent inequality, because we want to do it all, and I don't know how we can do this all.
I'm just damseling mostly. I'm not very good with a gun.