The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.

I must learn more about these people―try to understand them, put myself in their place. No, instead I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is.

I suppose if I gave myself the chance I could be an alcoholic.

As a poet, one lives a bit on air. I always like someone who can teach me something practical.

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.

How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.