I am not a nature poet. There is almost always a person in my poems.

We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the secret sits in the middle and knows.

One of the hardest things in life to accept is a called third strike.

Every poem is a momentary stay against the confusion of the world.

Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in it nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one.

Friends make pretence of following to the grave but before one is in it, their minds are turned and making the best of their way back to life and living people and things they understand.

You have freedom when you're easy in your harness.