The eye is pleased when nature stoops to art..

Writing is?waiting for the word that may not be there until next Tuesday..

There is a poignancy in all things clear, In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning. Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water ….

All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know.

What's lightly hid is deepest understood..

Most women know that sex isgood for headaches..

Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia..

What you hope for Is that at some point of the pointless journey, Indoors or out, and when you least expect it, Right in the middle of your stride, l….

To claim, at a dead party, to have spotted a grackle, When in fact you haven't of late, can do no harm..

We know what boredom is: it is a dull Impatience or a fierce velleity, A champing wish, stalled by our lassitude, To make or do. In the strict sense,….

I would feel dead if I didn't have the ability periodically to put my world in order with a poem. I think to be inarticulate is a great suffering, an….

It is true that the poet does not directly address his neighbors; but he does address a great congress of persons who dwell at the back of his mind, ….

Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and t….

Teach me, like you, to drink creation whole/ And casting out myself, become a soul..

Columbus and his men, they say, Conveyed the virus hither Whereby my features rot away And vital powers wither; Yet had they not traversed the seas A….

Caught Summer is always an imagined time. Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind. There must be prime In the heart to beget that season, to reac….

Odd that a thing is most itself when likened.

Step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. Something will come to you..

A thrush, because I'd been wrong, Burst rightly into song In a world not vague, not lonely, Not governed by me only..

Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though i….

Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels..