Do not deprive me of my age. I have earned it.

I long for the bulbs to arrive, for the early autumn chores are melancholy, but the planting of bulbs is the work of hope and is always thrilling.

I am furious at all the letters to answer, when all I want to do is think and write poems. ... I long for open time, with no obligations except toward the inner world and what is going on there.

Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.

life is always bringing unexpected gifts.

A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs, like life itself.

So let the world go, but hold fast to joy.