dogma and shrinking from the external world are at one limit of the range of belief. At the other are science and poetry and, indeed, reality.

One writes in order to feel.

If we look long enough and hard enough ... we will begin to see the connections that bind us together, and when we recognize those connections, we will begin to change the world.

Outrage and possibility are in all the poems we know.

In time of crisis, we summon up our strength. Then, if we are lucky, we are able to call every resource, every forgotten image that can leap to our quickening, every memory that can make us know our power. And this luck is more than it seems to be: it depends on the long preparation of the self to be used.

A world is to be fought for, sung, and built: Love must imagine the world.

I am working out the vocabulary of my silence.