Our words must seem to be inevitable.

I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.

We can only begin to live when we conceive life as Tragedy.

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.

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

The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart.

Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner; / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.