Isn’t it wonderful the way the world holds both the deeply serious, and the unexpectedly mirthful?

I feel the terror of idleness, like a red thirst. Death isn't just an idea.

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

To find a new word that is accurate and different, you have to be alert for it.

... Let us risk the wildest places, Lest we go down in comfort, and despair.

Come with me into the woods where spring is advancing, as it does, no matter what, not being singular or particular, but one of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

On poetry: Everyone wants to know what it means. But nobody is asking, How does it feel?