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Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons.

May Sarton

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May Sarton
Age: 83 †
Born: 1912
Born: May 3
Died: 1995
Died: July 16
Diarist
Poet
Writer
May Eleanor Sarton
Homing
Pigeons
Destination
Poems
Flight
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More quotes by May Sarton

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The garden is growth and change and that means loss as well as constant new treasures to make up for a few disasters.
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Love opens the doors into everything, as far as I can see, including and perhaps most of all, the door into one's own secret, and often terrible and frightening, real self.
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You can't plan for a seizure of feeling, and for this reason I put everything else aside when I'm inspired.
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One does not find oneself by pursuing one's self, but on the contrary by pursuing something else and learning through discipline or routine. . . who one is and wants to be.
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each new poem is partly propelled by the formal energies of all the poems that have preceded it in the history of literature.
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Public education was not founded to give society what it wants. Quite the opposite.
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... love is healing, even rootless love.
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And one cold starry night / Whatever your belief / The phoenix will take flight / Over the seas of grief / To sing her thrilling song / To stars and waves and sky / For neither old nor young / The phoenix does not die.
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Inside my mother's death / I lay and could not breathe.
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My own feeling is that the only possible reason for engaging in the hard labor of writing a novel, is that one is bothered by something one needs to understand, and can come to understand only through the characters in the imagined situation.
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I sometimes imagine that as one grows older one comes to live a role which as a young person one merely 'played.
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Without anxiety life would have very little savor.
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It is, I assume, quite easy to wither into old age, and hard to grow into it.
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Gardening is an instrument of grace.
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I am not ready to die, / But I am learning to trust death / As I have trusted life.
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Nobody stays special when they're old, Anna. That's what we have to learn.
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I write poems, have always written them, to transcend the painfully personal and reach the universal.
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The ambience here is order and beauty. That is what frightens me when I am first alone again. I feel inadequate. I have made an open place, a place for meditation. What if I cannot find myself inside it?
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He [the cat] wound himself around her legs, purring the purr of ardent desire like a kettle coming to a boil and then bubbling very fast.
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Joy, happiness ... we do not question. They are beyond question, maybe. A matter of being. But pain forces us to think, and to make connections ... to discover what has been happening to cause it. And, curiously enough, pain draws us to other human beings in a significant way, whereas joy or happiness to some extent, isolates.
May Sarton