For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.

The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.

Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

True love is a discipline in which each divines the secret self of the other and refuses to believe in the mere daily self.

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.