r silent.
Many a doctrine is like a window pane. We see truth through it but it divides us from truth.
Now let us play hide and seek. Should you hide in my heart it would not be difficult to find you.
But should you hide behind your own shell, then it would be useless for anyone to seek you.
A woman may veil her face with a smile.
How noble is the sad heart who would sing a joyous song with joyous hearts.
He who would understand a woman, or dissect genius, or solve the mystery of silence is the very man who would wake from a beautiful dream to sit at a breakfast table.
I would walk with all those who walk.
I would not stand still to watch the procession passing by.
You owe more than gold to him who serves you. Give him of your heart or serve him.
Nay,we have not lived in vain. Have they not built towers of our bones?
Let us not be particular and sectional. The poet’mind and the scorpion’s tail rise in glory from the same earth. Every dragon gives birth to a St. George who slays it.
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper that we may record our emptiness.
Should you care to write(and only the saints know why you should), you must have knowledge and art and music—the knowledge of the music of words, the art of being artless, and the magic of loving your readers.
They dip their pens in our hearts and think they are inspired.
Should a tree write its autobiography it would not be unlike the history of a race.
If I were to choose between the power of writing a poem and the ecstasy of a poem unwritten, I would choose the ecstasy. It is better poetry.
But you and all my neighbors agree that I always choose badly.
沙与沫 第三章（4）
Poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth.
Words are timeless. You should utter them or write them with a knowledge of their timelessness.
A poet is a dethroned king sitting among the ashes of his palace trying to fashion an image out of the ashes.
Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.
In vain shall a poet seek the mother of the songs of his heart.
Once I said to a poet, “We shall not know your worth until you die.”
And he answered saying, “Yes, death is always the revealer. And if indeed you would know my worth it is that I have more in my heart than upon my tongue,and more in my desire than in my hand.”
If you sing of beauty though alone in the heart of the desert you will have an audience.
Poetry is wisdom that enchants the heart.
Wisdom is poetry that sings in the mind.
If we could enchant man’s heart and at the same time sing in his mind, then in truth he would live in the shadow of God.
Inspiration will always sing; inspiration will never explain.
We often sing lullabies to our children that we ourselves may sleep.
All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.
Thinking is always the stumbling stone to poetry.
A great singer is he who sings our silences.♂♂
How can you sing if your mouth is filled with food?
How shall your hand be raised in blessing if it is filled with gold?
They say the nightingale pierces his bosom with a thorn when he sings his love song.
So do we all. How else should we sing?
Genius is but a robin’s song at the beginning of a slow spring.
Even the most winged spirit cannot escape physical necessity.
A madman is not less a musician than you or myself; only the instrument on which he plays is a little out of tune.
The song that lies silent in the heart of a mother sings upon the lips of her child.
No longing remains unfulfilled.
I have never agreed with my other self wholly. The truth of the matter seems to lie between us.
Your other self is always sorry for you. But your other self grows on sorrow; so all is well.
There is no struggle of soul and body save in the minds of those whose souls are asleep and whose bodies are out of tune.
When you reach the h