I imagine the earth when I am no more: Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

Not that I want to be a god or a hero. Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.

Leaves glowing in the sun, zealous hum of bumblebees, From afar, from somewhere beyond the river, echoes of lingering voices And the unhurried sounds of a hammer gave joy not only to me. Before the five senses were opened, and earlier than any beginning They waited, ready, for all those who would call themselves mortals, So that they might praise, as I do, life, that is, happiness.

I am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy

Even if that is so, there will remain A word wakened by lips that perish, A tireless messenger who runs and runs Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, And calls out, protests, screams.

The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.

It is impossible to communicate to people who have not experienced it the undefinable menace of total rationalism.