Cuchulain stirred, Stared on the horses of the sea, and heard The cars of battle and his own name cried; And fought with the invulnerable tide.

The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.

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

We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.

Books are but waste paper unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought - asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness, pride, or design in their conversation.

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

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