I have all that I lost and I go carrying my childhood like a favorite flower that perfumes my hand.

Love that stammers, that stutters, is apt to be the love that loves best.

I have all that I lost and I go carrying my childhood like a favorite flower that perfumes my hand.

I write poetry because I can’t disobey the impulse; it would be like blocking a spring that surges up in my throat. For a long time I’ve been the servant of the song that comes, that appears and can’t be buried away. How to seal myself up now?…It no longer matters to me who receives what I submit. What I carry out is, in that respect, greater and deeper than I, I am merely the channel.

I have a faithful joy and a joy that is lost. One is like a rose, the other, a thorn. The one that was stolen I have not lost.

All night I have suffered; all night my flesh has trembled to bring forth its gift. The sweat of death is on my forehead; but it is not death, it is life!

Speech is our second possession, after the soul-and perhaps we have no other possession in this world.