[The] whirlwind fife-and-drum of the storm bends the salt marsh grass, disturbs stars in the sky and the star on the steeple; it is a privilege to see so much confusion.

In a poem the words should be as pleasing to the ear as the meaning is to the mind.

As contagion of sickness makes sickness, contagion of trust can make trust.

Conscious writing can be the death of poetry.

... imaginary gardens with real toads in them ... ... if you demand on one hand, the raw material of poetry in all its rawness and that which is on the other hand genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

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

I am hard to disgust, but a pretentious poet can do it