For the listener, who listens in the snow, / And, nothing himself, beholds / Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
We live in an old chaos of the sun.
I certainly do not exist from nine to six, when I am at the office.
The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
All of our ideas come from the natural world: trees equal umbrellas.
After the leaves have fallen, we return To a plain sense of things. It is as if We had come to an end of the imagination, Inanimate in an inert savoir.