Our words must seem to be inevitable.

...How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face... "When You Are Old And Gray

Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.

Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

It seems to me that true love is a discipline.

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.