There never was a war that was not inward.

I believe verbal felicity is the fruit of ardor, of diligence, and of refusing to be false.

Excess is the common substitute for energy.

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

One writes because one has a burning desire to objectify what it is indispensable to one's happiness to express.

When one cannot appraise out of one's own experience, the temptation to blunder is minimized, but even when one can, appraisal seems chiefly useful as appraisal of the appraiser.

War is pillage versus resistance and if illusions of magnitude could be transmuted into ideals of magnanimity, peace might be realized.