Love that stammers, that stutters, is apt to be the love that loves best.

Love that stammers, that stutters, is apt to be the love that loves best.

Let the radiance of my enthusiasms envelop the poor courtyard and the bare classroom. Let my heart be a stronger column and my goodwill purer gold than the columns and gold of rich schools.

The poet is an untier of knots, and love without words is a knot, and it drowns.

I have a faithful joy and a joy that is lost. One is like a rose, the other, a thorn. The one that was stolen I have not lost.

In the secret of night, my prayer climbs like the liana, My prayer is, and I am not. It grows, and I perish. I have only my hard breath, my reason and my madness. I cling to the vine of my prayer. I tend it at the root of the stalk of night.

There is the joy of being healthy and fair, but there is overall the beauty, the immense joy of being useful.