You Must Be Careful Not To Deprive

One Critic Wrote . . . That My Poems Sounded As Though They Had Been Translated From The Hungarian. I Don't Know Why, But Somehow That Made Me Feel Quite Lighthearted.

To Conquer A Piece Of Earth And Make It As Beautiful As One Can Dream Of It Being: That Is Art, Too. A Man Cannot Be Separated From The Earth. I Come Out Of The Garden Every Day Feeling, Oh, Inspired In A Way That One Needs In Order To Convert The Daily-ness Of The Life Into Something Greater Than That Little Life Itself.

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.

A Poem Has Secrets That The Poet Knows Nothing Of.

I Associate The Garden With The Whole Experience Of Being Alive, And So, There Is Nothing In The Range Of Human Experience That Is Separate From What The Garden Can Signify In Its Eagerness And Its Insistence, And In Its Driving Energy To Live -- To Grow, To Bear Fruit.