The Only Way Round Is Through.

We Can Make A Little Order Where We Are, And Then The Big Sweep Of History On Which We Can Have No Effect Doesn't Overwhelm Us. We Do It With Colors, With A Garden, With The Furnishings Of A Room, Or With Sounds And Words. We Make A Little Form, And We Gain Composure.

My Definition Of Poetry (if I Were Forced To Give One) Would Be This: Words That Have Become Deeds.

Nothing Can Make Injustice Just But Mercy.

Love Has Earth To Which She Clings.

Home Is The Place Where, When You Have To Go There, They Have To Take You In.