I have gone into the waste lonely places

In a dark time, the eye begins to see / I meet my shadow in the deepening shade...Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.

I came where the river Ran over stones; My ears knew An early joy. And all the waters Of all the streams Sang in my veins That summer day.

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

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

What we need is more people who specialize in the impossible.

What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?