But There Are Times When Patience Proves

Still More Labyrinthine Buds The Rose.

That We Devote Ourselves To God, Is Seen In Living Just As Though No God There Were.

Kiss Me As If You Made Believe You Were Not Sure This Eve, How My Face, Your Flower, Had Pursed It's Petals Up.

Truth Is Truth Howe'er It Strike.

Truth Is Within Ourselves; It Takes No Rise From Outward Things, Whate'er You May Believe. There Is An Inmost Centre In Us All, Where Truth Abides In Fulness; And Around, Wall Upon Wall, The Gross Flesh Hems It In, This Perfect, Clear Perception-which Is Truth. A Baffling And Perverting Carnal Mesh Binds It, And Makes All Error: And To Know Rather Consists In Opening Out A Way Whence The Imprisoned Splendour May Escape, Than In Effecting Entry For A Light Supposed To Be Without.