Life Is The Path You Beat While

By Walking One Makes The Road, And Upon Glancing Behind Sees The Path

I Dreamt -- Marvellous Error! -- That I Had A Beehive Here Inside My Heart. And The Golden Bees Were Making White Combs And Sweet Honey From My Old Failures.

My Soul Is Not Asleep. It Is Awake, Wide Awake. It Neither Sleeps Nor Dreams, But Watches, Its Eyes Wide Open Far-off Things, And Listens At The Shores Of The Great Silence.

In Order To Write Poetry, You Must First Invent A Poet Who Will Write It.

Travelers, There Is No Path, Paths Are Made By Walking.