I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.

Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.

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

And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.

The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.

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.