Of course! the path to heavendoesn't lie down in flat miles.It's in the imaginationwith which you perceive this world,and the gestureswith which you honor it.-from The Swan

The poem was made not just to exist, but to speak—to be company. It was everything that was needed, when everything was needed.

and anyway it’s just the same old story --a few people just trying,one way or another,to survive.Mostly, I want to be kind.And nobody, of course, is kind,or mean,for a simple reason.And nobody gets out of it, having toswim through the fires to stay inthis world.

People do it,some out of desperation,others out of greed.They steal.The very powerful and clever might steal a whole house,or a million dollars.It's been done.But what does it matter?Love is the one thing the heart cravesand love is the one thingyou can't steal.

Now the fire rises and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red roses of flame.

A poem should always have birds in it.

Every night the owl with his wild monkey-face calls through the black branches, and the mice freeze and the rabbits shiver in the snowy fields— and then there is the long, deep trough of silence when he stops singing, and steps into the air.

No poet ever wrote a poem to dishonor life, to compromise high ideals, to scorn religious views, to demean hope or gratitude, to argue against tenderness, to place rancor before love, or to praise littleness of soul. Not one. Not ever.

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away from wherever you are, to look for your soul?