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.

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.

Being a poet is not a job or a profession but a way of life.

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

Academia is a graveyard of poets.

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.