The mind-is not the heart. I may yet live, as I know others live, To wish in vain to let go with the mind- Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me That I need learn to let go with the heart.

I have never started a poem yet whose end I knew. Writing a poem is discovering.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart.

Every poem is a momentary stay against the confusion of the world.

I am not a nature poet. There is almost always a person in my poems.

One of the hardest things in life to accept is a called third strike.