I write to find out what I didn't know I knew.

Writing a poem is discovering.

The only way round is through.

O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow, Make the day seem to us less brief... Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst.

I cut my own hair. I got sick of barbers because they talk too much. And too much of their talk was about my hair coming out.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate wilfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.