A Longing For The Dance

In A Murderous Time/the Heart Breaks And Breaks/and Lives By Breaking.

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.

When You Look Back On A Lifetime And Think Of What Has Been Given To The World By Your Presence, Your Fugitive Presence, Inevitably You Think Of Your Art, Whatever It May Be, As The Gift You Have Made To The World In Acknowledgment Of The Gift You Have Been Given, Which Is The Life Itself... That Work Is Not An Expression Of The Desire For Praise Or Recognition, Or Prizes, But The Deepest Manifestation Of Your Gratitiude For The Gift Of Life.

A Poet Needs To Keep His Wilderness Alive Inside Him.

You Must Be Careful Not To Deprive The Poem Of Its Wild Origin.