The afternoon is bright, with spring in the air, a mild March afternoon, with the breath of April stirring, I am alone in the quiet patio looking for some old untried illusion - some shadow on the whiteness of the wall some memory asleep on the stone rim of the fountain, perhaps in the air the light swish of some trailing gown.

In order to write poetry, you must first invent a poet who will write it.

There is no one so bound to his own face that he does not cherish the hope of presenting another to the world.

Last night as I was sleeping, I dreamt - marvellous error! - That it was God I had here inside my heart.

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.

Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.

Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.