We only keep what we lose.
Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self.
[In old age] there is a childlike innocence, often, that has nothing to do with the childishness of senility. The moments become precious . . .
poetry is first of all a way of life and only secondarily a way of writing.
Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons.
“How does one grow up?” I asked a friend the other day. There was a slight pause; then she answered, “By thinking.”