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

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.

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

I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, deep inspiration. That can't be taught, it can't be what you use in teaching.

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.

It's the light of the oncoming train.