I love the silent hour of night,For blissful dreams may then arise,Revealing to my charmed sightWhat may not bless my waking eyes.

Facerea lumiiŞi a fost seară.Şi a fost dimineaţă.Dar asta a fost demult.Şi o singură dată.

The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

Poetry is not the most important thing in life... I'd much rather lie in a hot bath reading Agatha Christie and sucking sweets.

I submitted a poem last night to The New Yorker. They said it can take up to three months to hear back. I got rejected immediately.

for those memories are nowjust like these little kittensI hold in my handsthose can be kissedand treasuredbut not held too tightly.

Then all the charm Is broken--all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each mis-shape the other.

È difficile comprendere da dove provenga quest'orgoglio dei poeti, se sovente si vergognano che appaia la loro debolezza.

Times change, as do our wills, What we are - is ever changing; All the world is made of change, And forever attaining new qualities.

while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.

I do believe in poetry. I believe that there are creatures endowed with the power to put things together and bring them back to life

... in the world, it will be women, mostly colored and poor. women will have to bury children, and support themselves through grief.

We can’t choose our poetic fathers any more than our biological ones — but we can choose how to come to terms with them.

I give you the end of a golden string,Only wind it into a ball,It will lead you in at Heaven's gateBuilt in Jerusalem's wall.

Maybe life is all about twirling under one of those midnight skies, cutting a swathe through the breeze and gently closing your eyes.