I love reading another reader’s list of favorites. Even when I find I do not share their tastes or predilections, I am provoked to compare, contrast, and contradict. It is a most healthy exercise, and one altogether fruitful.

I take as metaphysical poetry that in which what is ordinarily apprehensible only by thought is brought within the grasp of feeling, or that in which what is ordinarily only felt is transformed into thought without ceasing to be feeling.

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.

Sometimes things become possible if we want them bad enough.

Where there is no temple there shall be no homes.

To each individual the world will take on a different connotation of meaning-the important lies in the desire to search for an answer.

I say to you: Make perfect your will. / I say: take no thought of the harvest, / But only of proper sowing.