The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, "Again the sun! anew each day; and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul."

Poetry is a peerless proficiency of the imagination.

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

Fanaticism? No. Writing is exciting and baseball is like writing. You can never tell with either how it will go.

Among animals, one has a sense of humor. Humor saves a few steps, it saves years.

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

The sweet air coming into your house on a fine day, from water etched with waves as formal as the scales on a fish.