After every war someone has to tidy up.

You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.

Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries.

This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.

Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know.

Contemporary poets are skeptical and suspicious even, or perhaps especially, about themselves. They publicly confess to being poets only reluctantly, as if they were a little ashamed of it. But in our clamorous times it's much easier to acknowledge your faults, at least if they're attractively packaged, than to recognize your own merits, since these are hidden deeper and you never quite believe in them yourself.

Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.