Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.

When I stand before thee at the day's end, thou shalt see my scars and know that I had my wounds and also my healing.

The roots below the earth claim no rewards for making the branches fruitful.

By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.

If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love.

Things in which we do not take joy are either a burden upon our minds to be got rid of at any cost; or they are useful, and therefore in temporary and partial relation to us, becoming burdensome when their utility is lost; or they are like wandering vagabonds, loitering for a moment on the outskirts of our recognition, and then passing on. A thing is only completely our own when it is a thing of joy to us.

The touch of an infinite mystery passes over the trivial and the familiar, making it break out into ineffable music... The trees, the stars, and the blue hills ache with a meaning which can never be uttered in words.