Nearly all the best things that came to me in life have been unexpected, unplanned by me.

Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.

Beware of advice-even this.

I can remember only a few of the strange and curious words now dead but living and spoken by the English people a thousand years ago.

Freedom is baffling: men having it often know not they have it till it is gone and they no longer have it.

Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.

I am! I have come through! I belong!