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Robert Frost
(page 3)

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The best way out is always through.

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My sorrow, when she's 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.

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We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.

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Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance.

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Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee,
And I'll forgive Thy great big one on me.

"Cluster of Faith"

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