Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping.
 In the cradle a child is screaming.
 An old man sits over his death, and anyone
 young enough talks to his love, breathes 
into her lips, looks into her eyes.

I am a moonbeam, free to go whenever I choose.

For the spell is older than experience. For the tale is older than the record.

In this most Christian of worlds all poets are Jews.

My favorite mode of communication is in the world beyond: a dream, to see in a dream. My second favorite is correspondence.

And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.

No one has ever stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?