I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
It is obvious that we can no more explain a passion to a person who has never experienced it than we can explain light to the blind.
It's strange that words are so inadequate. Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath, so the lover must struggle for words.
Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage we did not take, towards the door we never opened, into the rose garden.
Not less of love, but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the Future as well as the past.
Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter.
Love compels cruelty To those who do not understand love.
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
There's no vocabulary For love within a family, love that's lived in But not looked at, love within the light of which All else is seen, the love within which All other love finds speech. This love is silent.
To men of a certain type The suspicion that they are incapable of loving Is as disturbing to their self-esteem As, in cruder men, the fear of impotence.
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