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 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.
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 taste and feel and see the truth. We do not reason ourselves into it.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
The worst thing about some men is that when they are not drunk they are sober.
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.
Where there is nothing, there is God.
Talent perceives differences; genius, unity.
It is one of the great troubles of life that we cannot have any unmixed emotions. There is always something in our enemy that we like, and something in our sweetheart that we dislike.
What can be explained is not poetry.
Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.
Ah, let us kiss each other's eyes,/And laugh our love away.
Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.
Everything in nature is resurrection.
And wisdom is a butterfly And not a gloomy bird of prey.
Think where man's glory most begins and ends, and say my glory was I had such friends.
All that I have said and done, Now that I am old and ill, Turns into a question till I lie awake night after night And never get the answers right.
One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
Myself I must remake.
Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
Though leaves are many, the root is one.
The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
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.
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