Love Is Our Human Miracle.

Mountains Define You. You Cannot Define / Them.

It Is Dangerous It Seems To Me For A Civilization When There Is A Complete Abyss Betewen People In General And The Artists. Or Is It Always So? The Poets Who Are Most Ardently On The People's Side Write In Such A Way That The People Cannot See Rhyme Nor Reason To Their Work.

I Long For The Bulbs To Arrive, For The Early Autumn Chores Are Melancholy, But The Planting Of Bulbs Is The Work Of Hope And Is Always Thrilling.

Fire Is A Good Companion For The Mind.

Innocence Is Not Pure So Much As Pleased, Always Expectant, Bright-eyed, Self-enclosed