I implore those who love me to love my solitude.

Who has not sat before his own heart's curtain? It lifts: and the scenery is falling apart.

I am circling around God, around the ancient tower, and I have been circling for a thousand years, and I still don't know if I am a falcon, or a storm, or a great song.

And you should not let yourself be confused in your solitude by the fact that there is something in you that wants to move out of it.

I am a house gutted by fire where only the guilty sometimes sleep before the punishment that devours them hounds them out in the open.

I think of you often, dear, and with such concentrated wishes that it really must help you in some way.

Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy of being No-one's sleep under so many lids.