he who gives quickly gives twice / in nothing so much as in a letter.
What is our innocence, What is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe.
Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
There never was a war that was not inward.
The heart that gives, gathers.
In a poem the excitement has to maintain itself. I am governed by the pull of the sentence as the pull of a fabric is governed by gravity.