I wish you were that birch rising from the clump behind you, and I the gray oak alongside.

The pleasure we feel, reading a poem, is our assurance of its integrity.

Every now and then I meet someone certain of personal greatness. I want to pat this person on the shoulder and mutter comforting words: "Things will get better! You won't always feel so depressed! Cheer up!"

When we put words together - adjective with noun, noun with verb, verb with object - we start to talk to each other.

I wish you were that birch rising from the clump behind you, and I the gray oak alongside.

The greatest kindness would put a bullet in his bright eye.

You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead.