The great philosophers are poets who believe in the reality of their poems.

Has my heart gone to sleep? Have the beehives of my dreams stopped working, the waterwheel of the mind run dry, scoops turning empty, only shadow inside? No, my heart is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. Not asleep, not dreaming— its eyes are opened wide watching distant signals, listening on the rim of vast silence

No one can shed light on vices he does not have or afflictions he has ever experienced.

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

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

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.