In the vast, and the minute, we see The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.
However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.
I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.
Looking at the sky last night and the moon in the first fresh dark, just a few stars, bright with their cold flares, I had a little crumpled thought, 'Oh well, the moon. It's just another place like California. ' One's imagination drags its feet as we are inexorably hauled into the future.
The aim of the poet, or other artist, is first to make something; and it's impossible to make something out of words and not communicate
Snow falling softly on lashes of eyes you love, and a cold cheek growing warm next to your own in hushed dark familial December.
In the past I have declined to comment on my own work: because, it seems to me, a poem is what it is; because a poem is itself a definition, and to try to redefine it is to be apt to falsify it; and because the author is the person least able to consider his work objectively
A land of levity is a land of guilt.
I read the book and I think, "Well, this is the movie we're going to make," and then someone else reads it, and they take a completely different movie from it. And both are valid.
Praise to our Father-God, High praise in solemn lay, Alike for what His hand hath given, And what it takes away.
If you're really being honest with yourself when you're acting, part of it is touching the real you. You can only separate yourself so much from the character. Those vulnerable moments do touch me.