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In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.
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Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can’t, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.
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The best way out is always through.
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Freedom lies in being bold.
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Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life; define yourself.
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The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom… in a clarification of life – not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.
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We love the things we love for what they are.
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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.
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Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
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These 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.
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The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for…
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