Quotes About Reflection

I may have wept that any should have died Or missed their chance, or not have been their best, Or been their riches, fame, or love denied; On me as much as any is the jest. I take my incompleteness with the rest. God bless himself can no one else be blessed I hold your doctrine of Memento Mori. And were an epitaph to be my story I'd have a short one ready for my own. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world.

The farm is a base of operations–a stronghold. You can withdraw into yourself there. Solitude for reflection is an essential ingredient in self-development. I think a person has to be withdrawn into himself to gather inspiration so that he is somebody when he comes out again among folks–when he "comes to market' with himself. He learns that he's got to be almost wastefully alone.

A Late Walk - A Tree beside the wall stands bare, But a leaf that lingered brown, Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought, comes softly rattling down. I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower to carry again to you.

Neither Out Far Nor In Deep The people along the sand All turn and look one way. They turn their back on the land. They look at the sea all day. As long as it takes to pass A ship keeps raising its hull; The wetter ground like glass Reflects a standing gull. The land may vary more; But wherever the truth may be--- The water comes ashore, And the people look at the sea. They cannot look out far. They cannot look in deep. But when was that ever a bar To any watch they keep?

I may return If dissatisfied With what I learn From having died.

But bid life seize the present? It lives less in the present Than in the future always, And less in both together Than in the past. The present Is too much for the senses, Too crowding, too confusing— Too present to imagine.

The Road not Taken [...] I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages hence: two roads diverged in a wood, and I - I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference...

But the flower leaned aside And thought of naught to say, And morning found the winter breeze A hundred miles away.

My sorrow, when she's here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be.

The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. –

Something was withheld . . . We found it was ourselves.

Who would you be, I wonder, by those marks If I had moths to friend as I have flowers?

Though we choose greatly, still to lack The lasting memory at all clear, That life has for us on the wrack Nothing but what we somehow chose; Thus are we wholly stripped of pride In the pain that has but one close, Bearing it crushed and mystified.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence; Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by. And that has made all the difference. - Robert Frost

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same...

Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

Zdarzy?o mi si? niegdy? ujrze? w lesie rano dwie drogi: pojecha?em t? mniej ucz?szczan? - Reszta wzi??a si? z tego, ?e to j? wybra?em

And on the worn book of old-golden I brought not here to read, it seems, but hold And freshen in this air of withering sweetness;

There ought to be a view around the world From such a mountain

A Time to Talk - 1874-1963 When a friend calls to me from the road And slows his horse to a meaning walk, I don't stand still and look around On all the hills I haven't hoed, And shout from where I am, What is it? No, not as there is a time to talk. I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground, Blade-end up and five feet tall, And plod: I go up to the stone wall For a friendly visit.

Never ask of money spent Where the spender thinks it went. Nobody was ever meant To remember or invent What he did with every cent.

There I elected to demur Beneath a low-slung juniper That like a blanket to my chin Kept some dew out and some heat in, Yet left me freely face to face All night with universal space.

Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference, from The Road Not Taken, published in 1916.