Somewhere there is an ancient enmity between our daily life and the great work. Help me in saying it, to understand it.

I am too alone in the world and not alone enough to make every moment holy.

He does not always remain bent over the pages; he often leans back and closes his eyes over a line he has been reading again, and its meaning spreads through his blood.

Those doves below, the ones utterly cared for, never endangered ones, cannot know tenderness.

Let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always.

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.

Why should you want to give up a child's wise not-understanding in exchange for defensiveness and scorn, since not-understanding is, after all, a way of being alone, whereas defensiveness and scorn are a participation in precisely what, by these means, you want to separate yourself from.