A Quote by John Green

So dawn goes down today... Nothing gold can stay. -- Robert Frost — © John Green
So dawn goes down today... Nothing gold can stay. -- Robert Frost
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
My treasure chest is filled with gold. Gold . . . gold . . . gold . . . Vagabond's gold and drifter's gold . . . Worthless, priceless, dreamer's gold . . . Gold of the sunset . . . gold of the dawn . . .Gold of the showertrees on my lawn . . . Poet's gold and artist's gold . . . Gold that can not be bought or sold - Gold.
I have written about some truly great writers - John Steinbeck, Robert Frost, and William Faulkner. Faulkner and Frost were the very peaks of American poetry and fiction in the 20th century.
If it were thought that anything I wrote was influenced by Robert Frost, I would take that particular piece of mine, shred it, and flush it down the toilet, hoping not to clog the pipes.
I like Wallace Stevens, Robert Frost, but some of the older ones it's hard for me to sit down with - when I sit down to read some poetry, I usually read more contemporary stuff.
It was an hour before dawn. When all the Whos down in Whoville were asnooze in their beds without care. Sorry, wrong book. If I get to stay awake until dawn, I get just a tad slaphappy.
Did you know that wherever you find fool's gold, real gold exists somewhere nearby? This also goes for relationships and friendships. Real gold is found in the heart. For every piece of fake gold that you discard, remember that true gold isn't too far.
Robert Frost: plain, strong, simple, and mean.
February dawn -- frost on the path Where I paced all winter.
Nothing gold can stay.
Interesting is when one can produce a picture that is pretty, but with undercurrents. The metaphor that comes to mind is in the poems of Robert Frost.
I just don't think most people put myself and Robert Frost in the same category.
Me, I always wanted frost power.” “Frost power?” “Yeah.” Seth gestured dramatically toward my coffee table. “If we’re talking superhero abilities. If I had frost power, I could wave my hand, and suddenly that whole thing would be covered in ice.” “Not frost?” “Same difference.” “How would frost and/or ice power help you fight crime?” “Well, I don’t know that it would. But it’d be cool.
Frost is but slender weeks away, Tonight the sunset glow will stay, Swing to the north and burn up higher And Northern Lights wall earth with fire. Nothing is lost yet, nothing broken, And yet the cold blue word is spoken: Say goodbye to the sun. The days of love and leaves are done.
This is just the way it goes: there's always a cycle with music - it goes up and it goes down, it goes risque and it goes back, it goes loud then it goes soft, then it goes rock and it goes pop.
One will never again look at a birch tree, after the Robert Frost poem, in exactly the same way.
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