Does one really have to fretAbout enlightenment?No matter what road I travel,I’m going home.

Someday you will name me, then gently place those burning holy roses in my hair.[Songs of Longing]

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

ave love, dreamnot of staunching such strict flame, but come,lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

I am sore wounded but not slainI will lay me down and bleed a whileAnd then rise up to fight again

Poetry...... a place for the genuine,Hands that can grasp, eyesthat can dilate, hair that can rise

To delight the ear and the eye is a mere sensual indulgence;—true poetry strikes at the soul.

I've given offense by saying I'd as soon write free verse as play tennis with the net down.

All the rest is silenceOn the other side of the wall;And the silence ripeness,And the ripeness all.

I've never seen beauty so devastatingas in the linesthat trace our hopeand fall from the stars.

My imagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world and exiles me from it.

A poet must discover that it’s his own story that is true, even if the truth is small indeed.

The same hot lightning that burns your blood with passion–– cools your fears with peace.

Let your love flow where the beautiful things are and something beautiful will always come your way.

Reclaiming the sacred in our lives naturally brings us close once more to the wellsprings of poetry.