Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.

A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

When such as I cast out remorse; So great a sweetness flows into the breast; We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blessed.

All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.

I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.