There are some griefs so loud/They could bring down the sky/And there are griefs so still/None knows how deep they lie.

Here life goes on, even and monotonous on the surface, full of lightning, of summits and of despair, in its depths. We have now arrived at a stage in life so rich in new perceptions that cannot be transmitted to those at another stage - one feels at the same time full of so much gentleness and so much despair - the enigma of this life grows, grows, drowns one and crushes one, then all of a sudden in a supreme moment of light one becomes aware of the sacred.

When one's not writing poems - and I'm not at the moment - you wonder how you ever did it. It's like another country you can't reach.

The tragic thing about learning from experience is I fear that one can only learn from one's own experience. Other people's - other nations' - experiences simply do not help. They can be imaginatively learned from. But people do not act on other people's experiences.

Gardening is the instrument of grace.

I tell the gods are still alive / And they are not consoling.

Old age is not an illness, it is a timeless ascent. As power diminishes, we grow toward the light.