Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall

I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.

I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.

Somewhere, everywhere, now hidden, now apparent in what ever is written down, is the form of a human being. If we seek to know him, are we idly occupied?

To let oneself be carried on passively is unthinkable.