In the middle of the night, things well up from the past that are not always cause for rejoicing--the unsolved, the painful encounters, the mistakes, the reasons for shame or woe. But all, good or bad, give me food for thought, food to grow on.

I simply adore being alone - I find it a consuming thirst - and when that thirst is slaked, then I am happy.

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

Poetry has a way of teaching one what one needs to know ... if one is honest.

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.

in the very long run any success devours - and perhaps also corrupts.

I suppose real old age begins when one looks backward rather than forward