A poet is someone Who can pour Light into a spoon, Then raise it To nourish Your beautiful parched, holy mouth.

The earth has disappeared beneath my feet, It fled from all my ecstasy. Now like a singing air creature I feel the rose keep opening.

On the neck of a young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise.

Now that all your worry has proved such an unlucrative business. Why not find a better job.

I do not feel like writing verses; but as I light my perfume burner with myrrh and jasmine incense, they suddenly burgeon from my heart, like flowers in a garden.

The heart is a thousand stringed instrument that can only be tuned with love.

Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living in better conditions.