How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life.

Tall poplars--human beings of this earth!

Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.

The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.

With a changing key, you unlock the house where the snow of what’s silenced drifts. Just like the blood that bursts from Your eye or mouth or ear, so your key changes. Changing your key changes the word That may drift with flakes. Just like the wind that rebuffs you, Clenched round your word is the snow.

There's nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German.

Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.