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

I think that passion if really intense is always destructive if not to the two involved, always to other people.

There are some griefs so loud/They could bring down the sky/And there are griefs so still/None knows how deep they lie.

Lunches are just not good. They take the heart out of the day and the spaciousness from the morning's work.

The more articulate one is, the more dangerous words become.

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.

Time spent with poets is never wasted.