This is the miracle that happens every time to those who really love: the more they give, the more they possess.

We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.

theses spaces are ours.. how frighteningly great they must be, since thousands of years have not made them overflow with our feelings.

where we see the future, it sees all time and itself within all time. forever healed.

as, upon the farthest hill, which shows him his whole valley one last time, he turns, stops, lingers-, so we live here, forever taking leave

truly being here is so much; because everything here apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way keeps calling to us

just once; no more.. but to have been this once, completely, even if only once: to have been at one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.

your springtimes are no longer needed to win me for you.. namelessly I am resolved upon you.. your holy idea is intimate death.

You, sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing. Embody me. Flare up like a flame and make big shadows I can move in. Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

If we surrendered to earth’s intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees.

The curtain of the pupil rises... An image enters in, rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles, plunges into the heart, and dies.

Nowhere, Beloved, will world be but within us. Our life passes in transformation. And the external shrinks into less and less.

What terror will tear his heart out of the track of its fleeing to place it in perfect submission, under the calm influence of the heavens?

And now in vast, cold, empty space, alone. Yet hidden deep within the grown-up heart, a longing for the first world, the ancient one...

Oh, how I understand you.. how wildly I scatter myself into the night air that in a moment will touch you.

Even in the time of waning.. nothing could ever again help us to fulfillment, except our own solitary course over the sleepless landscape.

How dear you will be to me then, you nights of anguish. Why didn't I kneel more deeply to accept you.. and lose myself in your loosened hair

But still, existence for us is a miracle.. a playing of absolute forces that no one can touch who has not knelt down in wonder.

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems

If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches.