I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?

If only I can find him... the man who will be intelligent, yet physically magnetic and personable. If I can offer that combination, why shouldn't I expect it in a man?

I do not love; I do not love anybody except myself. That is a rather shocking thing to admit.

I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.

It was my last act of love (first words to her mother in the hospital after her first major suicide attempt)