Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree

I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.

The air is like a butterfly With frail blue wings. The happy earth looks at the sky And sings.

The only reason a road is good as every wanderer knows / Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which one goes

The fairy poet takes a sheet Of moonbeam, silver white; His ink is dew from daisies sweet, His pen a point of light.

I suppose I passed it a hundred times, But I always stop for a minute. And look at the house, the tragic house, The house with nobody in it.

There is no place in which to hide when Age comes seeking for his bride.

There is no peace to be taken With poets who are young, For they worry about the wars to be fought and the songs that must be sung.

For nothing keeps a poet In his high singing mood Like unappeasable hunger For unattainable food.

Things have a terrible permanence when people die.

I think that I shall never scan A tree as lovely as a man. . . . . A tree depicts divinest plan, But God himself lives in a man.

There is neither replay of time nor life.

I've started doing yoga and meditation, but I'm not very good at that kind of thing and turning my brain off.

Anything done for the first time unleashes a demon.

I'm opposed to fundamentalism in any form.

Remember, you may choose your sin, but you cannot chose the consequences.

Women were quite terrifying until I was older. I think that's partly down to confidence.

Every twenty-four hours God has a fresh new supply of grace, of favor, of wisdom, of forgiveness.

You cannot sedate all the things you hate.

I would gladly have climbed out of my skin and into his that night, because I believed that was what love meant.

Loneliness is failed solitude.