All the soarings of my mind begin in my blood.

I am so glad you are here. It helps me realize how beautiful my world is.

O trees of life, O when are you wintering?We are not unified. We have no instinctslike those of migratory birds. Useless, and late,we force ourselves, suddenly, onto the wind,and fall down to an indifferent lake.We realise flowering and fading together.And somewhere lions still roam. Never knowing,as long as they have their splendour, of any weakness.

Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future lessens . . . . Superabundant existence wells in my heart.

Often a star was waiting for you to notice it. A wave rolled toward you out of the distant path, or as you walked under an open window, a violin yielded itself to your hearing. All this was mission.

At the bottom no one in life can help anyone else in life; this one experiences over and over in every conflict and every perplexity: that one is alone. That isn't as bad as it may first appear; and again it is the best thing in life that each should have everything in himself; his fate, his future, his whole expanse and world.

A billion stars go spinning through the night, / glittering above your head, / But in you is the presence that will be / when all the stars are dead.