All the soarings of my mind begin in my blood.

It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.

It is a tremendous act of violence to begin anything. I am not able to begin. I simply skip what should be the beginning.

And these Things,
which live by perishing, know you are praising them; transient,
they look to us for deliverance: us, the most transient of all.
They want us to change them, utterly, in our invisible heart,
within - oh endlessly - within us! Whoever we may be at last.
Earth, isn't this what you want: to arise within us,
invisible? Isn't it your dream
to be wholly invisible someday?

And these things
that keep alive on departure know that
you praise them; transient,
they look to us, the most transient,
to be their rescue.
They want us to change them completely,
in our invisible hearts,
into -- O endlessly -- us! Whoever,
finally, we may be.

I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people: that each protects the solitude of the other.