The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.
Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
Though leaves are many, the root is one.
Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.
Wine enters through the mouth, Love, the eyes. I raise the glass to my mouth, I look at you, I sigh.
People who lean on logic and philosophy and rational exposition end by starving the best part of the mind.
We taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.
It takes more courage to dig deep in the dark corners of your own soul and the back alleys of your society than it does for a soldier to fight on the battlefield.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
I have observed dreams and visions very carefully, and am now certain that the imagination has some way of lighting on the truth that the reason has not, and that its commandments, delivered when the body is still and the reason silent, are the most binding we can ever know.
Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
The mystical life is the centre of all that I do and all that I think and all that I write. . . . I have always considered myself a voice of what I believe to be a greater renaissance - the revolt of the soul against the intellect.
I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.
As I thought of these things, I drew aside the curtains and looked out into the darkness, and it seemed to my troubled fancy that all those little points of light filling the sky were the furnaces of innumerable divine alchemists, who labour continually, turning lead into gold, weariness into ecstasy, bodies into souls, the darkness into God; and at their perfect labour my mortality grew heavy, and I cried out, as so many dreamers and men of letters in our age have cried, for the birth of that elaborate spiritual beauty which could alone uplift souls weighted with so many dreams.
Everything in nature is resurrection.
When You Are Old" WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; 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; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.
The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.
Once you attempt legislation upon religious grounds, you open the way for every kind of intolerance and religious persecution.
One should say before sleeping: I have lived many lives. I have been a slave and a prince. Many a beloved has sat upon my knee and I have sat upon the knees of many a beloved. Everything that has been shall be again.
One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
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