Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.

Many times man lives and dies between his two eternities: that of race and that of Soul... A brief parting from those dear is the worst man has to fear... Though grave diggers' toil is long... They but thrust their buried men back in the human mind again.

Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.

Oh, Love is the crooked thing, there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it, for he will be thinking about love til the stars run away and the shadows eaten the moon.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned.

Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.