It is only through mystery and madness that the soul is revealed.

Humility, that low, sweet root, from which all heavenly virtues shoot.

It is not while beauty And youth are thine own And thy cheeks Unprofaned by a tear That the ferver and faith Of a soul can be known To which time will but Make thee more dear No the heart that has truly loved Never forgets But as truly loves On to the close As the sunflower turns On her god when he sets The same look which She'd turned when he rose.

Socrates and Jesus, two teachers of virtue and love, were executed because of the unsettling, threatening power of their souls, which was revealed in their personal lives and in their words.

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

When we relate to our bodies as having soul, we attend to their beauty, their poetry and their expressiveness. Our very habit of treating the body as a machine, whose muscles are like pulleys and its organs engines, forces its poetry underground, so that we experience the body as an instrument and see its poetics only in illness.

This wretched brain gave way, and I became a wreck at random driven, without one glimpse of reason or heaven.