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

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

I came to love, I came into my own.

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

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

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.

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