“I brewed potions in a vain search for life everlasting,
I read books, I sang songs of history,
And today I've come home to Cold Mountain
To pillow my head on the stream and wash my ears.”

“If my serenade of song and story should serve as a pillow for some composer's head, as yet perhaps unborn, to dream and build on our fond melodies in his tomorrow, I have not labored in vain.”

“When I lay my head on the pillow at night I can say I was a decent person today. That's when I feel beautiful.”

“I tried to kill it in my bed,
I gagged it with a pillow,
But awoke the nuns inside my head.”

“When I wake up, my pillow’s cold and damp with tears. But tears for what? I have no idea.”

“Cold Mountain is hidden in white clouds
It's peaceful to be cut off from the busy world
I use dry grass for cushions in my mountain home
My only light is the round moon
My bed is the rock beside the green pool
Tigers and deer are my companions
I delight in this happy peaceful life
Forever beyond the world of men”

“If I read a book [and] it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry. If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry. These are the only ways I know it. Is there any other way?”

“I put my head under my pillow and let the quiet put things where they are supposed to be.”

“It's not the tales of Stephen King that I've read,
I need protection from the things in my head…”

“The cold mountain turns dark green.
The autumn stream flows murmuring on.
Leaning on my staff beneath the wicket gate,
In the rushing wind I hear the cry of the aged cicada.”