You're burned into my mind forever
The ear writes my poems, not the mind.
The universe is a continuous web. Touch it at any point and the whole web quivers.
I can hardly wait for tomorrow, it means a new life for me each and every day.
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.
Be what you are. Give What is yours to give. Have Style. Dare.
The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
How readily we wish time spent revoked, that we might try the ground again where once--through inexperience, as we now perceive--we missed that happiness we might have found!
His kisses were gifts. He kissed with everything he had, with power and passion and hunger and love. He held nothing back, giving everything, exposing everything.
People can portray me anyway they want because I don’t give a damn… But don’t you analyze me and don’t you tell me what I am until you get close enough to understand what I am. Then you can make an analysis of me. But don’t you dare do it until then.
I did not want my tombstone to read, 'She kept a really clean house.