He who understands one thing understands everything, for the same laws are in all.

It almost seems as if autumn were the true creator, more creative than the spring, which is too even-toned, more creative when it comes with its will-to-change and shatters the much too ready-made, self-satisfied and really almost bourgeois-complacent image of summer.

Some day when I lose you, will you still be able to sleep, without me to whisper over you like a crown of linden branches?

Just as the creative artist is not allowed to choose, neither is he permitted to turn his back on anything: a single refusal, and he is cast out of the state of grace and becomes sinful all the way through.

There may be good, but there are no pleasant marriages.

Whoever you are, go out into the evening, leaving your room, of which you know every bit; your house is the last before the infinite, whoever you are.

For poems are not, as people think, simply emotions (one has emotions early enough)-they are experiences.