For inside all the weakness of old age, the spirit, God knows, is as mercurial as it ever was.

For me the moral dilemma this past year has been how to make peace with the unacceptable.

Is it perhaps the one necessity of love, that it be needed? And the one great human tragedy that it so rarely is?

In a total work, the failures have their not unimportant place.

I’m only able to write poetry, for the most part, when I have a Muse, a woman who focuses the world for me.

Most people have to talk so they won't hear.

Do we always make our freedom out of someone else's bondage?