Being, not doing, is my first joy.

All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain with its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Odor of basswood upon a mountain slope, A scene beloved of bees; Silence of water above a sunken tree: The pure serene of memory of one man,- A ripple widening from a single stone Winding around the waters of the world.

Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.

Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.

You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.

The damage of teaching: the constant contact with the undeveloped.

Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.