The leaves are falling, falling as from way off, as though far gardens withered in the skies; they are falling with denying gestures. And in the nights the heavy earth is falling from all the stars down into loneliness. We all are falling. This hand falls. And look at others: it is in them all. And yet there is one who holds this falling endlessly gently in his hands.

Who are the farmer's servants? ... Geology and Chemistry, the quarry of the air, the water of the brook, the lightning of the cloud, the castings of the worm, the plough of the frost.

Unless you try to do something beyond what you have already mastered, you will never grow.

All loss, all pain, is particular; the universe remains to the heart unhurt.

Indeed the river is a perpetual gala, and boasts each month a new ornament.

For the most part, only the light characters travel. Who are you that have no task to keep you at home?

Everything teaches transition, transference, metamorphosis: therein is human power, in transference, not in creation; & therein is human destiny, not in longevity but in removal. We dive & reappear in new places.