O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.

What we suffer, what we endure, what we muff, what we kill, what we miss, what we are guilty of, is done by us, as individuals, in private.

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.

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

At midnight tears Run into your ears.

It is almost impossible for the poetess, once laurelled, to take off the crown for good or to reject values and taste of those who tender it.

O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.