There were times over the years when life was not easy, but if you're working a few hours a day and you've got a good book to read, and you can go outside to the beach and dig for clams, you're okay.

The stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own.

Snow was falling, so much like stars filling the dak trees that one could easily imagine its reason for being was nothing more the prettiness.

One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began.

Writing a poem ... is a kind of possible love affair between something like the heart (that courageous but also shy factory of emotion) and the learned skills of the conscious mind.

I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was alive for a little while.

The face of the moose is as sad as the face of Jesus.