If I've done my work well, I vanish completely from the scene. I believe it is invasive of the work when you know too much about the writer.

The three ingredients of poetry: the mystery of the universe, spiritual curiosity, the energy of language.

I saw that worrying had come to nothing and gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.

There is a notion that creative people are absent-minded, reckless, heedless of social customs and obligations. It is, hopefully, true for they are in another world altogether.

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.

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.

Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever?