When will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks through the world, yourself included.

Every morning I walk like this around the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead.

We can know a lot. And still, no doubt, there are rash and wonderful ideas brewing somewhere; there are many surprises yet to come.

This is the first, wildest, and wisest thing I know, that the soul exists, and that it is built entirely out of attention.

The god of dirt came up to me many times and said so many wise and delectable things, I lay on the grass listening to his dog voice, frog voice; now, he said, and now, and never once mentioned forever from, One or Two Things

Poetry is a life-cherishing force.

And I do not want anymore to be useful, to be docile, to lead / children out of the fields into the text / of civility, to teach them that they are (they are not) better than the grass.