The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer.

Insofar as poetry has a social function it is to awaken sleepers by other means than shock.

There comes a time when only anger is love.

But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.

Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes; caps and bells. And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng's clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at all, let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything, rather than void: and that, 0 Lord, Creator, Hallowed one, You still, hour by hour sustain it.

Mediocrity is perhaps due not so much to lack of imagination as to lack of faith in the imagination, lack of the capacity for this abandon.

I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.