One listens to a piece of great music, say, and feels deeply moved by it, and wants to put this feeling into words, but it can't be put into words. That's what - the music has already supplied the meaning, and words will just be superfluous after that. But it's that kind of verbal meaning that can't be verbalized that I try to get at in poetry.

The winter does what it can for its children.

Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.

until only infinity remained of beauty

I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.

I feel that poetry is going on all the time inside, an underground stream.

In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.