It was not in me It came and wentI wanted to hold it It was held by wine(I no longer know what it was)
That is the principal thing: not to remain with the dream with the intention with the being in the mood but always forcibly to convert it into all things.
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That is the principal thing: not to remain with the dream with the intention with the being in the mood but always forcibly to convert it into all things.
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But suppose the endlessly dead were to wake in us some emblem:they might point to the catkins hangingfrom the empty hazel trees, or direct us to the raindescending on black earth in early spring. ---And we, who always think of happinessrising, would feel the emotionthat almost baffles uswhen a happy thing falls.
Perhaps everything terrible is, in its deepest being, something that needs our love.
Yet, no matter how deeply I go down into myself, my God is dark, and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence. I know that my trunk rose from his warmth, but that's all, because my branches hardly move at all near the ground, and just wave a little in the wind.
Yet, no matter how deeply I go down into myself, my God is dark, and like a webbing made of a hundred roots that drink in silence.
Have patience with everything unresolved in you heart and try to love the questions themselves. It is possible to live and not know.