Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I'll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass the world is too full to talk about.
The hurt you embrace becomes joy.
I am part of the load not rightly balanced . . .
I am a drunkard from another kind of tavern. I dance to a silent tune. I am the symphony of stars.
Discard yourself and thereby regain yourself. Spread the trap of humility and ensnare love.
And don't think the garden loses its ecstasy in winter. It's quiet, but the roots are down there riotous.