Robert Frost

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

And were an epitaph to be my story I’d have a short one ready for my own. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.

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.

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I – I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.