One of the hardest things in life to accept is a called third strike.
There's nothing I'm afraid of like scared people.
I write to find out what I didn't know I knew.
Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting. . . . Read it a hundred times; it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.
Forgive, O Lord, my little jokes on Thee, and I'll forgive Thy great big joke on me.
One aged man - one man - can't fill a house.