... love is healing, even rootless love.

Women are at last becoming persons first and wives second, and that is as it should be.

Love opens the doors into everything, as far as I can see, including and perhaps most of all, the door into one's own secret, and often terrible and frightening, real self.

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

Where music thundered let the mind be still, Where the will triumphed let there be no will, What light revealed, now let the dark fulfill.

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.

I’m only able to write poetry, for the most part, when I have a Muse, a woman who focuses the world for me.