There are few sorrows, however poignant, in which a good income is of no avail.

My definition of poetry (if I were forced to give one) would be this: words that have become deeds.

People who read me seem to be divided into four groups: twenty-five percent like me for the right reasons; twenty-five percent like me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the wrong reasons; twenty-five percent hate me for the right reasons. It's that last twenty-five percent that worries me.

The artist in me cries out for design.

My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.

Tree at my window, window tree, My sash is lowered when night comes on; But let there never be curtain drawn Between you and me.

There never was any heart truly great and generous, that was not also tender and compassionate.