“You who think of us: they lived only in delusion, Know that we the People of the Book, will never die!”

Human material seems to have one major defect: it does not like to be considered merely as human material. It finds it hard to endure the feeling that it must resign itself to passive acceptance of changes introduced from above.

Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth.

The true enemy of man is generalization.

Learning To believe you are magnificent. And gradually to discover that you are not magnificent. Enough labor for one human life.

The death of a man is like the fall of a mighty nation That had valiant armies, captains, and prophets, And wealthy ports and ships all over the seas.

Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.

Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth. Do not follow those who lie in contempt of reality. Let your lie be even more logical than the truth itself, so the weary travelers may find repose.

A man should not love the moon. An ax should not lose weight in his hand. His garden should smell of rotting apples, And grow a fair amount of nettles.

Do not feel safe. The poet remembers. You can kill one, but another is born. The words are written down, the deed, the date.

I have defined poetry as a ‘passionate pursuit of the Real.

Two attributes of a poet, avidity of the eye and the desire to describe that which he sees.

All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.

A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.

I am not my own friend.Time cuts me in two.

Even if that is so, there will remain A word wakened by lips that perish, A tireless messenger who runs and runs Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, And calls out, protests, screams.

It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends.

When you die, you donct go to sleep. You go home to nonphysical reality, and you are very much awake.

All I want to know is where I’m going to die, so I’ll never go there.

He who lives only unto himself withers and dies, while he who forgets himself in the service of others grows and blossoms.

I have died and rebirth a million times inside this body, and I have met a million people because of it.

August died but summer lived on with your kiss.

And though the years before I die Stretch out interminably, I Shall only count my life in truth As that brief hour of happy youth.

Living my life to protect your fragile heart is what I would die for.

I was there when God was put on trial. At the end of the trial, they used the word chayav, rather than ‘guilty’. It means ‘He owes us something’. Then we went to pray.