At any moment solitude may put on the face of loneliness.

In the country of pain we are each alone.

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

I suppose real old age begins when one looks backward rather than forward

Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons.

We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.

I asked myself the question, 'What do you want of your life?' and I realized with a start of recognition and terror, 'Exactly what I have - but to be commensurate, to handle it all better.