Speaking of August Rodin: He raised his world above us in an immense arc, and made it a part of nature.

and I circle ten thousand years long; And I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song

All this hurrying soon will be over. Only when we tarry do we touch the holy.

All things want to float.

Someday you will name me, then gently place those burning holy roses in my hair.

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads Of her life, and weaves them gratefully Into a single cloth – It’s she who drives the loudmouths from the hall And clears it for a different celebration.

All feelings that concentrate you and lift you up are pure; only that feeling is impure which grasps just one side of your being and thus distorts you. Everything you can think of as you face your childhood, is good. Everything that makes more of you than you have ever been, even in your best hours, is right. Every intensification is good, if it is in your entire blood, if it isn't intoxication or muddiness, but joy which you can see into, clear to the bottom.