And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away from wherever you are, to look for your soul?

A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the trees, or the laws which pertain to them ... A dog can never tell you what she knows from the smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know almost nothing. . .

What can we do about God, who makes and then breaks every god-forsaken, beautiful day?

The poem in which the reader does not feel himself or herself a participant is a lecture, listened to from an uncomfortable chair, in a stuffy room, inside a building.

... to write well it is entirely necessary to read widely and deeply. Good poems are the best teachers.

All culture developed as some wild, raw creature strived to live better and longer.

I do not live happily or comfortably With the cleverness of our times. The talk is all about computers, The news is all about bombs and blood. This morning, in the fresh field, I came upon a hidden nest. It held four warm, speckled eggs. I touched them. Then went away softly, Having felt something more wonderful Than all the electricity of New York City.