That summer we had been absolutely alone, together, even when people were around, the only inhabitants of the kind of floating island or magic carpet which being in love is.

The poem is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful.

There is no country but the heart.

The poem . . . is a little myth of man's capacity of making life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see-it is, rather, a light by which we may see-and what we see is life.

There is nothing more alone than being in a car at night in the rain.

How do poems grow? They grow out of your life.

Reality is not a function of the event as event, but of the relationship of that event to past, and future, events.