It is worth while dying, to find out what life is.

There's no vocabulary For love within a family, love that's lived in But not looked at, love within the light of which All else is seen, the love within which All other love finds speech. This love is silent.

Of lovers whose bodies smell of each other Who think the same thoughts without need of speech

What a poem means is as much what it means to others as what it means to the author; and indeed, in the course of time a poet may become merely reader in respect to his own works, forgetting his original meaning.

If we really want to pray we must first learn to listen, for in the silence of the heart God speaks.

Everyone's alone - or so it seems to me. They make noises, and think they are talking to each other; They make faces, and think they understand each other. And I'm sure they don't. Is that a delusion?

And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.