... the natural world is the old river that runs through everything, and I think poets will forever fish along its shores.

You must not ever stop being whimsical. And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.

Poetry is one of the original arts, and it began, as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.

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.

Writers sometimes give up what is most strange and wonderful about their writing - soften their roughest edges - to accommodate themselves toward a group response.

I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery.

Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?