We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

Most poetry is very formal, but when a modern poet is formal he gets more attention for it than old poets did.

Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heel of small war--until the end of time to police the earth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.

Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder.