So it's back once more, back up the slope. Why do they always ruin my rope with their cuts? I felt so ready the other day, Had a real foretaste of eternity In my guts. Spoonfeeding me yet another sip from life's cup. I don't want it, won't take any more of it. Let me throw up. Life is medium rare and good, I see, And the world full of soup and bread, But it won't pass into the blood for me, Just goes to my head. It makes me ill, though others it feeds; Do see that I must deny it! For a thousand years from now at least I'm keeping a diet.

For our part, when we feel, we evaporate; ah, we breathe ourselves out and away; with each new heartfire we give off a fainter scent. True, someone may tell us: you're in my blood, this room, Spring itself is filled with you . . . To what end? He can't hold us, we vanish within him and around him.

Winning does not tempt that man. This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings.

Across the moment, aeons speak with aeons. More than we experienced has gone by.

Embrace your solitude and love it. Endure the pain it causes, and try to sing out with it. For those near to you are distant.

You are nearing the land that is life; you will recognize it by its seriousness.

Every angel is terrifying.