There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.

The things a man has heard and seen are threads of life, and if he pull them carefully from the confused distaff of memory, any who will can weave them into whatever garments of belief please them best. I too have woven my garment like another, but I shall try to keep warm in it, and shall be well content if it do not unbecome me.

The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

From our birthday, until we die, Is but the winking of an eye.

I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.

Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.

Nothing but stillness can remain when hearts are full Of their own sweetness, bodies of their loveliness.