I never knew what was meant by choice of words. It was one word or none.

Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.

God made a beauteous garden With lovely flowers strown, But one straight, narrow pathway That was not overgrown. And to this beauteous garden He brought mankind to live, And said "To you, my children, These lovely flowers I give. Prune ye my vines and fig trees, With care my flowers tend, But keep the pathway open Your home is at the end." God's Garden

I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

Both T.S. Eliot and I like to play, but I like to play euchre, while he likes to play Eucharist.

You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.