How did writing come to me? Like bird’s down on my windowpane, in winter. Just then there rose in the heart a struggle of firebrands, which has, still now, not ended.

For an inheritance to be really great, the hand of the defunct must not be seen.

How did writing come to me? Like bird’s down on my windowpane, in winter. Just then there rose in the heart a struggle of firebrands, which has, still now, not ended.

A poet should leave traces of his passage, not proofs. Traces alone engender dreams.

Be gful to the man who cares nothing for your remorse. You are his equal.

A poem is the realization of love. . . .

Trust firmly in your luck, cling to your happiness, and dare to take risks.