Sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.

And our problems will crumble apart, the soul / blow through like a wind, and here where we live will all be clean again, with fresh bread on the table.

Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.

With your name on my mouth and a kiss that never broke away from yours.

Love is a clash of lightnings

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

I love you only because it's you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.

How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.....

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness And the infinite tenderness shattered you like a jar.

I don’t love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as certain dark things are loved, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.

In the eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.

I love you as one loves certain dark things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

About me, nothing worse they will tell you, my love, than what I told you

And I watch my words from a long way off. They are more yours than mine. They climb on my old suffering like ivy.

Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.

Here I came to the very edge where nothing at all needs saying...and every day on the balcony of the sea wings open fire is born and everything is blue again like morning.

I want to see thirst In the syllables, Tough fire In the sound; Feel through the dark For the scream.