Saints are sinners who kept on going.

Going for character: why not now, and where you stand?

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin.

All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer.

Teacher, tender comrade, wife, A fellow-farer true through life.

Since hate poisons the soul, don't cherish enmities or grudges: avoid people who make you unhappy.