Poetry Has A Way Of Teaching One

[in Old Age] There Is A Childlike Innocence, Often, That Has Nothing To Do With The Childishness Of Senility. The Moments Become Precious . . .

What We Have Not Has Made Us What We Are. / ... / What We Are Not Drives Us To Consummation.

Do Not Deprive Me Of My Age. I Have Earned It.

A Garden Is Always A Series Of Losses Set Against A Few Triumphs, Like Life Itself.

Real Joy Is Becoming Exceedingly Rare Among Artists Of Any Kind. And I Have An Idea That Those Who Can And Do Communicate It Are Always People Who Have Had A Hard Time. Then The Joy Has No Smugness Or Self-righteousness In It, Is Inclusive Not Exclusive, And Comes Close To Prayer.