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

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.

Poetry Is Language Surprised In The Act Of Changing Into Meaning.

The Poem Comes In The Form Of A Blessing, Like Rapture Breaking On The Mind.

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.

Poetry Today Is Easier To Write But Harder To Remember.