The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.

Also I wanted to be able to love And we all know how that one goes, don't we? Slowly

Sing, if you can sing, and it not still be musical inside yourself.

In my own work, I usually revise through forty or fifty drafts of a poem before I begin to feel content with it.

All night my heart makes its way however it can over the rough ground of uncertainties, but only until night meets and then is overwhelmed by morning, the light deepening, the wind easing and just waiting, as I too wait (and when have I ever been disappointed?) for redbird to sing

And it is exceedingly short, his galloping life. Dogs die so soon. I have my stories of that grief, no doubt many of you do also. It is almost a failure of will, a failure of love, to let them grow old-or so it feels. We would do anything to keep them with us, and to keep them young. The one gift we cannot give.

Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then keep on going.