Myself I must remake.
I believe... that our memories are part of one great memory, the memory of Nature herself.
Teaching is not filling up a pail, it is lighting a fire.
Hammer your thoughts into unity.
Beloved, let your eyes half close, and your heart beat Over my heart, and your hair fall over my breast, Drowning love's lonely hour in deep twilight of rest.
Neither Christ nor Buddha nor Socrates wrote a book, for to do so is to exchange life for a logical process.
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.
Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.
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.
The winds that awakened the stars Are blowing through my blood.
I'm looking for the face I had, before the world was made.
To be born woman is to know - although they do not speak of it at school - women must labor to be beautiful.
Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.
We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
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.
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Love comes in at the eye.
Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.
Love is based on inequality as friendship is on equality.
True love is a discipline in which each divines the secret self of the other and refuses to believe in the mere daily self.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill: For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will.
The soul of man is of the imperishable substance of the stars!
Hearts are not had as a gift, But hearts are earned.
I always think a great speaker convinces us not by force of reasoning, but because he is visibly enjoying the beliefs he wants us to accept.
And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.
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