My life is not this steeply sloping hour, in which you see me hurrying. Much stands behind me; I stand before it like a tree; I am only one of my many mouths, and at that, the one that will be still the soonest. I am the rest between two notes, which are somehow always in discord because Death’s note wants to climb over— but in the dark interval, reconciled, they stay there trembling. And the song goes on, beautiful.

Young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it.

Fig tree, how long it's been full meaning for me, the way you almost entirely omit to flower and into the seasonably-resolute fruit uncelebratedly thrust your purest secret. Like the tube of a fountain, your bent bough drives the sap downwards and up: and it leaps from its sleep, scarce waking, into the joy of its sweetest achievement.

Yet everything that touches us, me and you, takes us together like a violin's bow, which draws one voice out of two separate strings.

We make our way through Everything like thread passing through fabric, giving shape to images that we ourselves do not know.

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

Our heart always transcends us.