Every poet has his dream reader: mine keeps a look out for curious prosodic fauna like bacchics and choriambs.

The glacier knocks in the cupboard, The desert sighs in the bed, And the crack in the teacup opens A lane to the land of the dead.

I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.

I don't think the mystical experience can be verbalized. When the ego disappears, so does power over language.

If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving be me.

No good opera plot can be sensible, for people do not sing when they are feeling sensible.

Geniuses are the luckiest of mortals because what they must do is the same as what they most want to do.