There is only one real deprivation... and that is not to be able to give one's gifts to those one loves most.

poetry is first of all a way of life and only secondarily a way of writing.

Without anxiety life would have very little savor.

So let the world go, but hold fast to joy.

What can I have that I still want?

Gardening gives one back a sense of proportion about everything - except itself.

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