The journey, Not the destination matters.

Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world To be wonderful and youthful afterall

There is, it seems to us, At best, only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience.

The fool,fixed in his folly,may think He can turn the wheel on which he turns.

Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.

The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason.

The old should be explorers, be curious, risk transgression, explore oldness itself.