If you know much about your work - why you work, how you work, your aims - you are probably not a poet.

The love of nature is a passion for those in whom it once lodges. It can never be quenched. It cannot change. It is a furious, burning, physical greed, as well as a state of mystical exaltation. It will have its own.

It's the folks that depend on us for this and for the other that we most do miss.

Green is the fresh emblem of well founded hopes. In blue the spirit can wander, but in green it can rest.

The well of Providence is deep. It's the buckets we bring to it that are small.

The past is only the present become invisible and mute; and because it is invisible and mute, its memorized glances and its murmurs are infinitely precious. We are tomorrow's past.

it is the way of lovers to think that none can bless or succour their love but their own selves. And there is a touch of truth in it, maybe more than a touch.