Tis true my garments threadbare are,And sorry poor I seem;But inly I am richer farThan any poet's dream.For I've a hidden life no oneCan ever hope to see;A sacred sanctuary noneMay share with me.Aloof I stand from out the strife,Within my heart a song;By virtue of my inner lifeI to myself belong.Against man-ruling I rebel,Yet do not fear defeat,For to my secret citadelI may retreat.Oh you who have an inner lifeBeyond this dismal dayWith wars and evil rumours rife,Go blessedly your way.Your refuge hold inviolate;Unto yourself be true,And shield serene from sordid fateThe Real You.
If we are to have a culture as resilient and competent in the face of necessity as it needs to be, then it must somehow involve within itself a ceremonious generosity toward the wilderness of natural force and instinct. The farm must yield a place to the forest, not as a wood lot, or even as a necessary agricultural principle but as a sacred grove - a place where the Creation is let alone, to serve as instruction, example, refuge; a place for people to go, free of work and presumption, to let themselves alone. (pg. 125, The Body and the Earth)
From my spirit's gray defeat, From my pulse's flagging beat, From my hopes that turned to sand Sifting through my close-clenched hand, From my own fault's slavery, If I can sing, I still am free.For with my singing I can make A refuge for my spirit's sake, A house of shining words, to be My fragile immortality.