Memory Is Each Man's Poet-in-residence.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

I Refuse To Turn To Theology To Justify The Life Or Redeem It. There Is A Question Always Of The Connection To The Eternal. I Say To Myself Above All, Keep Alive Your Conviction That There Are Sacred Elements In The Life In The Practice Of The Life That Must Be Respected. But The Conviction In The Existence Of The Sacred Does Not Necessarily Imply That You Need To Believe In A Creator, Because We Are The Ones That Made The Sacred.

A Longing For The Dance Stirs In The Buried Life.

I Associate The Garden With The Whole Experience Of Being Alive, And So, There Is Nothing In The Range Of Human Experience That Is Separate From What The Garden Can Signify In Its Eagerness And Its Insistence, And In Its Driving Energy To Live -- To Grow, To Bear Fruit.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.