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

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

A poem is the realization of love. . . .

How can we live without the unknown before us?

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.

What can be seductive about the eternal nothing is that the finest day is indifferently this one or any other like it.

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