I feel often very close to the ecstasy and anguish which lie at the very heart of poetry - I am writing a lot.
Innocence is not pure so much as pleased, Always expectant, bright-eyed, self-enclosed
You will always be here with me; As long as I live, A towering figure of love.
In a total work, the failures have their not unimportant place.
He [the cat] wound himself around her legs, purring the purr of ardent desire like a kettle coming to a boil and then bubbling very fast.
Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.