A poem begins with a lump in the throat. – Robert Frost
My sorrow, when shes here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane. – Robert Frost
There is little much beyond the grave, but the strong are saying nothing until they see. – Robert Frost
Ah, when to the heart of man was it ever less than a treason to go with the drift of things to yield with a grace to reason and bow and accept at the end of a love or a season. – Robert Frost