On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

I was left behind with the immensity of existing things. A sponge, suffering because it cannot saturate itself; a river, suffering because reflections of clouds and trees are not clouds and trees.

Two attributes of a poet, avidity of the eye and the desire to describe that which he sees.

A day so happy. Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden. Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers. There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess. I know no one worth my envying him.

There was a time when only wise books were read helping us to bear our pain and misery. This, after all, is not quite the same as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics. And yet the world is different from what it seems to be and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.

A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.

All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.