Dying--shucks! If you kin handle the living, what's to be afraid of the dying?

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

What if angry vectors veer Round your sleeping head, and form. There's never need to fear Violence of the poor world's abstract storm.

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

The poet is in the end probably more afraid of the dogmatist who wants to extract the message from the poem and throw the poem away than he is of the sentimentalist who says, "Oh, just let me enjoy the poem."

Your business as a writer is not to illustrate virtue but to show how a fellow may move toward it or away from it.

There is no country but the heart.