Poetry is not an end in itself but in the service of life; of what use are poems, or any other works of art, unless to enable human lives to be lived with insight of a deeper kind, with more sensitive feelings, more intense sense of the beautiful, with deeper understanding?

Academia is a graveyard of poets.

I couldn't claim that I have never felt the urge to explore evil, but when you descend into hell you have to be very careful.

And see the peaceful trees extend their myriad leaves in leisured dance- they bear the weight of sky and cloud upon the fountain of their veins.

Sensing us, the trees tremble in their sleep, The living leaves recoil before our fires, Baring to us war-charred and broken branches, And seeing theirs, we for our own destruction weep.

The work of the artist is to heal the soul.

... the poem reminds us of what we ourselves know, but did not know we knew; reminds us, above all, of what we are.