The devil...the prowde spirite...cannot endure to be mocked.

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

How many times do we lose an occasion for soul work by leaping ahead to final solutions without pausing to savor the undertones? We are a radically bottom-line society, eager to act and to end tension, and thus we lose opportunities to know ourselves for our motives and our secrets.

Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.

Like ships that have gone down at sea, when heaven was all tranquillity.

A genuine odyssey is not about piling up experiences. It is a deeply felt, risky, unpredictable tour of the soul.

The ordinary acts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest.