Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

I know there is no straight road No straight road in this world Only a giant labyrinth Of intersecting crossroads

Today in my heart a vague trembling of stars and all roses are as white as my pain.

The artist, and particularly the poet, is always an anarchist in the best sense of the word. He must heed only the call that arises within him from three strong voices: the voice of death, with all its foreboding, the voice of love and the voice of art.

Only mystery allows us to live, only mystery.

The important thing in life is to let the years carry us along.

Ditty of First Desire In the green morning I wanted to be a heart. A heart. And in the ripe evening I wanted to be a nightingale. A nightingale. (Soul, turn orange-colored. Soul, turn the color of love.) In the vivid morning I wanted to be myself. A heart. And at the evening's end I wanted to be my voice. A nightingale. Soul, turn orange-colored. Soul, turn the color of love.