“The birds of night peck at the first stars that flash like my soul when I love you.”

Love is a clash of lightnings

The books that help you most are those which make you think that most.

Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.

Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.

I need the sea because it teaches me.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.

Poetry arrived in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where it came from, from winter or a river. I don’t know how or when.

Laughter is the language of the soul.

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

We must dream our way.

Shyness is a condition foreign to the heart – a category, a dimension which leads to loneliness.

In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

You can put wings on a pig, but you don’t make it an eagle.

It was terribly beautiful to Tess today, for since her eyes last fell upon it she had learnt that the serpent hisses where the sweet birds sing.

You can cage the songbird, but you can’t make her sing. And you can trap the free bird, but you’ll have to clip her wings.

Blessed be the Lord for the beauty of summer and spring, for the air, the water, the verdure, and the song of birds.

Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.

The worthiest people are the most injured by slander, as is the best fruit which the birds have been pecking at.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds.

I wanted to know the name of every stone and flower and insect and bird and beast. I wanted to know where it got its color, where it got its life – but there was no one to tell me.