Sing then the core of dark and absolute oblivion where the soul at last is lost in utter peace.

This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.

And if tonight my soul may find her peace in sleep, and sink in good oblivion, and in the morning wake like a new-opened flower then I have been dipped again in God, and new-created.

But then peace, peace! I am so mistrustful of it: so much afraid that it means a sort of weakness and giving in.

No absolute is going to make the lion lie down with the lamb unless the lamb is inside.

She was my black rose, a broken angel I could hug and drift away with into peaceful oblivion.