Quotes to inspire and reflect

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.

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

The way a crow Shook down on me The dust of snow From a hemlock tree Has given my heart A change of mood And saved some part Of a day I had rued.

Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.

The snake stood up for evil in the Garden.

Considering the market, there are more Poems produced than any other thing? No wonder poets sometimes have to seem So much more businesslike than businessmen. Their wares are so much harder to get rid of.

I shall set forth for somewhere, I shall make the reckless choice Some say when they are in voice And tossing so as to scare The white clouds over them on, I shall have less to say, But I shall be gone.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

I’d like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love: I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.

Pressed into service means pressed out of shape.

Most of the change we think we see in life Is due to truths being in and out of favor.

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

With anyone to death, comes so far short They might as well not try to go at all.

Before I built a wall I’d ask to know What I was walling in or walling out.

And nothing to look backward to with pride, And nothing to look forward to with hope.

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.

My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, “Good fences make good neighbors.” 1

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring; I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away (And wait to watch the water clear, I may): I shan’t be gone long.—You come too.

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 the end Of a love or a season?

They would not find me changed from him they knew— Only more sure of all I thought was true.

Slowly, silently, now the moon Walks the night in her silver shoon.

It’s a very odd thing— As odd as can be— That whatever Miss T. eats Turns into Miss T.

Poor Jim Jay Got stuck fast In Yesterday.

Nought but vast sorrow was there— The sweet cheat gone.

Who said “Peacock Pie”? The old king to the sparrow: Who said “Crops are ripe”? Rust to the harrow.

“Is there anybody there?” said the Traveler, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest’s ferny floor.

“Tell them that I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,” he said.

Since thou 2 and those who died with thee for right Have died, the Present teaches, but in vain!

It’s easy ’nough to titter w’en de stew is smokin’ hot, But hit’s mighty ha’d to giggle w’en dey’s nuffin’ in de pot.

It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core… I know why the caged bird sings! 1

A man said to the universe: “Sir, I exist!” “However,” replied the universe, “The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation.”

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep. War is kind.

Should the wide world roll away Leaving black terror Limitless night, Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand Would be to me essential If thou and thy white arms were there And the fall to doom a long way.

How slow the shadow creeps: but when ’tis past How fast the shadows fall. How fast! How fast!

In the desert I saw a creature, naked, bestial, Who, squatting upon the ground, Held his heart in his hands, And ate of it. I said, “Is it good, friend?” “It is bitter—bitter,” he answered; “But I like it “Because it is bitter, “And because it is my heart.” 1

Of this bad world the loveliest and the best Has smiled and said “Good Night,” and gone to rest.

When I am dead, I hope it may be said: “His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.”

I’m tired of Love: I’m still more tired of Rhyme. But Money gives me pleasure all the time.

Here richly, with ridiculous display, The Politician’s corpse was laid away. While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged.

Matilda told such dreadful lies, It made one gasp and stretch one’s eyes; Her aunt, who, from her earliest youth, Had kept a strict regard for truth, Attempted to believe Matilda: The effort very nearly killed her.

For every time she shouted “Fire!” They only answered “Little liar!” And therefore when her aunt returned, Matilda, and the house, were burned.

When people call this beast to mind, They marvel more and more At such a little tail behind, So large a trunk before.

The chief defect of Henry King Was chewing little bits of string.

Child! do not throw this book about; Refrain from the unholy pleasure Of cutting all the pictures out! Preserve it as your chiefest treasure.