I am restless. I am athirst for faraway things. My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.

There are four powers: memory and intellect, desire and covetousness. The two first are mental and the others sensual. The three senses sight, hearing, and smell cannot well be prevented; touch and taste not at all.

The mind-is not the heart. I may yet live, as I know others live, To wish in vain to let go with the mind- Of cares, at night, to sleep; but nothing tells me That I need learn to let go with the heart.

They loved the sight of your dimming, and flickering starlight. How could they understand what was so intricate to be loved by so many, so intimate.

Poetry is what is lost in translation. It is also what is lost in interpretation.

In the mountain, stillness surges up to explore its own height. In the lake, movement stands still to contemplate its own depth.