“Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.”

“Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that neve...”

“Hope says: one dayyou will see her, if you will only wait.Despair says:all you have left of her is your bitterness.Beat, heartThe earthhas not swallowed everything.”

“I thought my fireplace dead and stirred the ashes. I burned my fingers.”

“I dreamt -- marvellous error! -- that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.”

“Don't try to rush things: for the cup to run over, it must first be filled.”

“Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.We laughed, knowing that better men would come,And greater wars: whe...”

“I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.”

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