Memory is each man's poet-in-residence.

You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.

We have all been expelled from the Garden, but the ones who suffer most in exile are those who are still permitted to dream of perfection.

The heart breaks and breaks and lives by breaking it is necessary to go through dark and deeper dark and not to turn

When they shall paint our sockets gray And light us like a stinking fuse, Remember that we once could say, Yesterday we had a world to lose.

Be what you are. Give What is yours to give. Have Style. Dare.

Rhythm to me is essentially what Hopkins called the taste of self. I taste myself as rhythm.