If you are too much like myself, what shall I learn of you, or you of me?
— Mary Oliver, from Long Life: Essays And Other Writings (Da Capo Press, 2005)
I dreamt that she sat by my head, tenderly ruffling my hair with her fingers, playing the melody of her touch. I looked at her face and struggled with my tears, till the agony of unspoken words burst my sleep like a bubble.
I sat up and saw the glow of the Milky Way above my window, like a world of silence on fire, and I wondered if at this moment she had a dream that rhymed with mine.
— Rabindranath Tagore, section 28 from Lover’s gift and Crossing (University of California Libraries, 1918)