Disguise Our Bondage As We

Like Ships That Have Gone Down At Sea, When Heaven Was All Tranquillity.

Earth Has No Sorrow That Heaven Cannot Heal.

From Plants That Wake When Others Sleep, From Timid Jasmine Buds That Keep Their Odour To Themselves All Day, But When The Sunlight Dies Away Let The Delicious Secret Out To Every Breeze That Roams About.

When We Relate To Our Bodies As Having Soul, We Attend To Their Beauty, Their Poetry And Their Expressiveness. Our Very Habit Of Treating The Body As A Machine, Whose Muscles Are Like Pulleys And Its Organs Engines, Forces Its Poetry Underground, So That We Experience The Body As An Instrument And See Its Poetics Only In Illness.

Disappointments In Love, Even Betrayals And Losses, Serve The Soul At The Very Moment They Seem In Life To Be Tragedies. The Soul Is Partly In Time And Partly In Eternity. We Might Remember The Part That Resides In Eternity When We Feel Despair Over The Part That Is In Life.