I thought that the light-house looked lovely as hope, That star on life's tremulous ocean.

I thought that the light-house looked lovely as hope, That star on life's tremulous ocean.

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

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.

I have plenty of machinery around me; what I really need is a more enchanting world in which to live and work.

Soul is to be found in the vicinity of taboo.