All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.

I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.

The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.

Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.

We're extremely fortunate not to know precisely the kind of world we live in. One would have to live a long, long time, unquestionably longer than the world itself.

I'm old-fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that humankind has yet devised.

When it comes, you’ll be dreaming that you don’t need to breathe; that breathless silence is the music of the dark and it’s part of the rhythm to vanish like a spark.