For me a true poem is on the way when I begin to be haunted, when it seems as if I were being asked an inescapable question by an angel with whom I must wrestle to get at the answer.

It takes a long time for words to become thought.

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

One of the good elements of old age is that we no longer have to prove anything, to ourselves or to anyone else. We are what we are.

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

Absence becomes the greatest Presence.

Fighting dragons is my holy joy.