A poem begins with a lump in the throat, a homesickness or a lovesickness. It is a reachingout toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where the emotion has found its thought and the thought has found the words.
Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.
Nature's first green is gold,Her hardest hue to hold.Her early leaf's a flower;But only so an hour.Then leaf subsides to leaf.So Eden sank to grief,So dawn goes down to day.Nothing gold can stay.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed So low for long, they never right themselves.
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
How many times it thundered before Franklin took the hint! How many apples fell on Newton's head before he took the hint! Nature is always hinting at us. It hints over and over again. And suddenly we take the hint.