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.

Love the questions, themselves.

Understand, I'll slip quietly away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks. I'll pursue solitary pathways through the pale twilit meadows with only this one dream: You come too.

For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so, because it serenely disdains to destroy us. Every angel is terrible.

As the arrow endures the string, and in the gathering momentum becomes more than itself. Because to stay is to be nowhere.

I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.

Nothing touches a work of art so little as criticism.