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

“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 it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.”

“What is the opposite of two?A lonely me, a lonely you.”

“Outside the open windowThe morning air is all awash with angels.”

“Now winter downs the dying of the year,And night is all a settlement of snow;From the soft street the rooms of houses showA gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thinAnd still allows some stirring down within.”

“Step off assuredly into the blank of your own mind. Something will come to you. Although at first You nod through nothing like a fogbound prow, Gravel will breed in the margins of your gaze”

“It is always a matter, my darling,Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wishWhat I wished you before, but harder.”