“Poetry is a finikin thing of airThat lives uncertainly and not for longYet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.”

“Between the radiant white of a clear conscience and the coal black of a conscience sullied by sin lie many shades of gray--where most of us live our lives. Not perfect but not beyond redemption.”

“For [W. B.] Yeats magic was not so much a kind of poetry as poetry a kind of magic, and the object of both alike was evocation of energies and knowledge from beyond normal consciousness.”

“There are so many other wonderful things that eyes could see if they really focused. Life's kind of like a painting. A rally bizarre abstract painting. You could look at it and think that all it is is a blur. And you can continue living your life thinking that all it is is a blur. But if you really look at it, really see it, focus on it, and use your imagination, life can become so much more. That painting could be of the sea, the sky, people, buildings, a butterfly on a flower or anything except the blur you were once convinced it was.”

“live for the momment because everythung else is uncertain”

“How much of twentieth-century poetry, how much of my own poetry, is the cry of the damned?”