There is another world, but it is in this one.

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

What man does not understand, he fears; and what he fears, he tends to destroy.

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.