I work with patience, which is almost power.

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.

He lives most life whoever breathes most air.

The growing drama has outgrown such toys Of simulated stature, face, and speech: It also peradventure may outgrow The simulation of the painted scene, Boards, actors, prompters, gaslight, and costume, And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, Its shifting fancies and celestial lights, With all its grand orchestral silences To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds.

I, who thought to sink, was caught up into love, and taught the whole of life in a new rhythm.

Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees takes off his shoes.

Quick-loving hearts ... may quickly loathe.