It is curious how any making of order makes one feel mentally ordered, ordered inside.
It is clear that we do not exactly choose our poems; our poems choose us.
Is it perhaps the one necessity of love, that it be needed? And the one great human tragedy that it so rarely is?
The more articulate one is, the more dangerous words become.
For poetry is, I believe, always an act of the spirit. The poem teaches us something while we make it. The poem makes you as you make the poem, and your making of the poem requires all your capacities of thought, feeling, analysis, and synthesis.
Gardening gives one back a sense of proportion about everything - except itself.