What shall I do, singer and first-born, in a world where the deepest black is grey, and inspiration is kept in a thermos? with all this immensity in a measured world?

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.

In this most Christian of worlds all poets are Jews.

An amazing observation: it is precisely for feelings that one needs time, not for thought. ... Feelings, obviously, are more demanding than thought.

My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.

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