It was not in me It came and went I wanted to hold it It was held by wine (I no longer know what it was)

Do not, do not, do not books for ever hammer at people like perpetual bells? When, between two books, silent sky appears: be glad

To love is good, too: love being difficult. 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. Love is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world for himself for another's sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things.

That is why young people, who are beginners in everything, are not yet capable of love: it is something they must learn. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered around their solitary, anxious, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love.

Look, lovers: almost separately they come towards us through the flowery grass and slowly; parting's so far from thought of, they indulge the extravagance of walking unembraced.

Everything terrible is something that needs our love.

That’s love: Two lonely persons keep each other safe and touch each other and talk to each other.