“When one gets quiet, then something wakes up inside one, something happy and quiet like the stars.”

“I think all happiness depends on the energy to assume the mask of some other life, on a re-birth as something not one's self.”

“We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet.”

“TO HIS HEART, BIIDING IT HAVE NO FEARBe you still, be you still, trembling heart;Remember the wisdom out of the old days:Him who trembles before the flame and the flood,And the winds that blow through the starry ways,Let the starry winds and the flame and the floodCover over and hide, for he has no partWith the lonely, majestical multitude.THE CAP AND THE BELLSThe jester walked in the garden:The garden had fallen still;He bade his soul rise upwardAnd stand on her window-sill.It rose in a straight blue garment,When owls began to call:It had grown wise-tongued by thinkingOf a quiet and light footfall;But the young queen would not listen;She rose in her pale night-gown;She drew in the heavy casementAnd pushed the latches down.He bade his heart go to her,When the owls called out no more;In a red and quivering garmentIt sang to her through the door.It had grown sweet-tongued by dreamingOf a flutter of flower-like hair;But she took up her fan from the tableAnd waved it off on the air.'I have cap and bells,' he pondered,'I will send them to her and die';And when the morning whitenedHe left them where she went by.She laid them upon her bosom,Under a cloud of her hair,And her red lips sang them a love-songTill stars grew out of the air.She opened her door and her window,And the heart and the soul came through,To her right hand came the red one,To her left hand came the blue.They set up a noise like crickets,A chattering wise and sweet,And her hair was a folded flowerAnd the quiet of love in her feet.”

“A daughter of a King of Ireland, heardA voice singing on a May Eve like this,And followed half awake and half asleep,Until she came into the Land of Faery,Where nobody gets old and godly and grave,Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise,Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue.And she is still there, busied with a danceDeep in the dewy shadow of a wood,Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.”

“THE ROSE OF THE WORLDWHO dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?For these red lips, with all their mournful pride,Mournful that no new wonder may betide,Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,And Usna’s children died.We and the labouring world are passing by:Amid men’s souls, that waver and give placeLike the pale waters in their wintry race,Under the passing stars, foam of the sky,Lives on this lonely face.Bow down, archangels, in your dim abode:Before you were, or any hearts to beat,Weary and kind one lingered by His seat;He made the world to be a grassy roadBefore her wandering feet.”

“When I had laid it on the floorI went to blow the fire a-flame,But something rustled on the floor,And someone called me by my name:It had become a glimmering girlWith apple blossoms in her hairWho called me by my name and ranAnd faded through the brightening air. . . .”