The personal vocabulary, the individual melody whose metre is one's biography, joins in that sound, with any luck, and the body moves like a walking, a waking island.

The English language is nobody's special property.

All of Victorian verse is pentameter.

Peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

The voice does go up in a poem. It is an address, even if it is to oneself.

The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome.

We read, we travel, we become.