The enslaver is enslaved, the hater, harmed.

I see no reason for calling my work poetry except that there is no other category in which to put it.

One must be as clear as one's natural reticence allows one to be.

There is a great amount of poetry in unconscious fastidiousness.

Revision is its own reward.

Men are monopolists of "stars, garters, buttons and other shining baubles"- unfit to be the guardians of another person's happiness.

I never 'plan' a stanza. Words cluster like chromosomes, determining the procedure.