The poem is always the last resort. In it the poet makes a world in little, and finds peace, even though, under complete focused emotion, the evocation be far more bitter than reality, or far more lovely.

Because language is the carrier of ideas, it is easy to believe that it should be very little else than such a carrier.

It is not possible, for a poet, writing in any language, to protect himself from the tragic elements in human life.... [ellipsis in source] Illness, old age, and death--subjects as ancient as humanity--these are the subjects that the poet must speak of very nearly from the first moment that he begins to speak.

Innocence of heart and violence of feeling are necessary in any kind of superior achievement: The arts cannot exist without them.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

A thousand kindnesses do not make up for a thousand blows.

I don't like quintessential certitude.