One of the springs of poetry is joy.

One does not "find oneself" by pursuing one's self, but on the contrary by pursuing something else and learning through discipline or routine. . . who one is and wants to be.

We are all jellyfish, too pitiful and too afraid of being disliked to be honest.

Miracles cannot be explained, that is their miraculous nature.

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

I write poems about relationships, love relationships, and I'm not able to do that all the time. I could go two years without writing poems, and then write a dozen. Having a novel to work on, with the intricate puzzle of character and plot to work out, is satisfying for the time there is no poetry.

Whatever peace I know rests in the natural world, in feeling myself a part of it, even in a small way.