You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.

If you were music I would listen to you ceaselessly And my low spirits would brighten up.

I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.

Sweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my soul, But I loved the silver willow best of all.

... he is rewarded with a form of eternal childhood, with the bounty and vigilance of the stars, the whole world was his inheritance and he shared it with everyone.

The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.