Life is like an onion. You peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.

Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love-letters.

And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.

Money buys everything except love, personality, freedom, immortality, silence, peace.

I stayed away from mathematics not so much because I knew it would be hard work as because of the amount of time I knew it would take, hours spent in a field where I was not a natural.

An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, "Come and find me, come and find me."

Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.