Nature's First Green Is Gold.

My Long Two-pointed Ladder's Sticking Through A Tree Toward Heaven Still, And There's A Barrel That I Didn't Fill Beside It, And There May Be Two Or Three Apples I Didn't Pick Upon Some Bough. But I Am Done With Apple-picking Now. Essence Of Winter Sleep Is On The Night, The Scent Of Apples: I Am Drowsing Off.

Out Alone In The Winter Rain, / Intent On Giving And Taking Pain.

I Have Just Been To A City In The West, A City Full Of Poets, A City They Have Made Safe For Poets. The Whole City Is So Lovely That You Do Not Have To Write It Up To Make It Poetry; It Is Ready-made For You. But, I Don't Know - The Poetry Written In That City Might Not Seem Like Poetry If Read Outside Of The City. It Would Be Like The Jokes Made When You Were Drunk; You Have To Get Drunk Again To Appreciate Them.

Nature's Never Quite Sure She Hasn't Erred In Her Vague Design.

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.