Poems, Quotes

Perhaps Everything That Frightens Us Is, In Its Deepest Essence, Something Helpless That Wants Our Love …

Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.
― Rainer Maria Rilke from Letters to a Young Poet

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.
― C.S. Lewis from The Four Loves


There is no difficulty that enough love will
not conquer; No disease that enough love
will not heal; No door that enough love
will not open; No gulf that enough love
will not bridge; No wall that enough love
will not throw down: No sin that enough
love will not redeem.

It makes no difference how deeply seated may
be the trouble, How hopeless the outlook,
How muddled the tangle, How great
the mistake; A sufficient realization
of love will dissolve it all. If only
you could love enough you would be
the happiest and most powerful being in
the world.
― Emmet Fox

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:

where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
― Pablo Neruda from One Hundred Love Sonnets

Albert Pike What we have done for ourselves alone, dies with us, what we have done for others and the world, remains and is immortal