This is what I have heard at last the wind in December lashing the old trees with rain unseen rain racing along the tiles under the moon wind rising and falling wind with many clouds trees in the night wind.

I wouldn't be happy about being considered a love poet or an environmental - I don't want any of those tags.

What you remember saves you.

When a poem is really finished, you can't change anything. You can't move words around. You can't say, 'In other words, you mean.' No, that's not it. There are no other words in which you mean it. This is it.

But most love poetry is awful; nobody knows how to write good love poetry either. But that's not a reason not to write love poetry. Some of the best poetry ever written has been love poetry, and some of the greatest poetry ever written has been political poetry.

You grieve Not that heaven does not exist but That it exists without us

Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars It is my emptiness among them While they drift farther away in the invisible morning