How can we live without the unknown before us?
Be gful to the man who cares nothing for your remorse. You are his equal.
For an inheritance to be really great, the hand of the defunct must not be seen.
To be a poet is to have an appetite for a certain anxiety which, when tasted among the swirling sum of things existent or forfeit, causes, as the taste dies, joy.
A poem is the realization of love. . . .
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.