I have sent books and music there, and all / Those instruments with which high spirits call / The future from its cradle, and the past / Out of its grave, and make the present last / In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die, / Folded within their own eternity.

My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use — my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.

My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, with the twirl of my tongue I encompass words and volumes of words

My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.

The words were on their way, and when they arrived, she would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like the rain.

Indeed, a book is a path of words which takes the heart in new directions.

You can go anywhere in books

And Yet the Books

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are,” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it's still a strange pageant,
Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

I have my books and poetry to protect me

Thinking of the stars night after night I begin to realize 'The stars are words' and all the innumerable worlds in the Milky Way are words, and so is this world too. And I realize that no matter where I am, whether in a little room full of thought, or in this endless universe of stars and mountains, it’s all in my mind.

Words are the mind's wings, are they not?

I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams.

Every word first looks around in every direction before letting itself be written down by me.

Books should go where they will be most appreciated, and not sit unread, gathering dust on a forgotten shelf