Travelers, There Is No Path, Paths Are

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.

All Uncertainty Is Fruitfull ... So Long As It Is Accompanied By The Wish To Understand

The Afternoon Is Bright, With Spring In The Air, A Mild March Afternoon, With The Breath Of April Stirring, I Am Alone In The Quiet Patio Looking For Some Old Untried Illusion - Some Shadow On The Whiteness Of The Wall Some Memory Asleep On The Stone Rim Of The Fountain, Perhaps In The Air The Light Swish Of Some Trailing Gown.

In Order To Write Poetry, You Must First Invent A Poet Who Will Write It.

The Wind, One Brilliant Day, Called To My Soul With An Odor Of Jasmine. "in Return For The Odor Of My Jasmine, I'd Like All The Odor Of Your Roses." "i Have No Roses; All The Flowers In My Garden Are Dead." "well Then, I'll Take The Withered Petals And The Yellow Leaves And The Waters Of The Fountain." The Wind Left. And I Wept. And I Said To Myself: "what Have You Done With The Garden That Was Entrusted To You?