Works of Art are of an infinite loneliness.

She followed slowly, taking a long time, As though there were some obstacles in the way; And yet: as though, once it was overcome, She would be beyond all walking, and would fly.

Look, we don't love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms.

I want to unfold. Let no place in me hold itself closed, for where I am closed, I am false.

For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.

... be indulgent toward those who ... are afraid of the aloneness that you trust.

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