I was made at right angles to the world and I see it so. I can only see it so.

Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed home and thought of here? Where should we be today?

If after I read a poem the world looks like that poem for 24 hours or so I'm sure it's a good one—and the same goes for paintings.

What childishness is it that while there's breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?

And as to experience-well, think how little some good poets have had, or how much some bad ones have.

Close, close all night the lovers keep. They turn together in their sleep, Close as two pages in a book that read each other in the dark. Each knows all the other knows, learned by heart from head to toes.

I've never written the things I'd like to write that I've admired all my life. Maybe one never does.