You must believe: a poem is a holy thing - a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.

I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.

Over every mountain there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire

I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.

Love begets love. This torment is my joy.

The self says, I am; The heart says, I am less; The spirit says, you are Nothing.