Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.

I am going a long way With these thou seëst-if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)- To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.

Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.

Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

Mastering the lawless science of our law,- that codeless myriad of precedent, that wilderness of single instances.

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.

Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths.