Defeat, my Defeat, my solitude and my aloofness;
You are dearer to me than a thousand triumphs,
And sweeter to my heart than all world-glory.
Defeat, my Defeat, my self-knowledge and my defiance,
Through you I know that I am yet young and swift of foot
And not to be trapped by withering laurels.
And in you I have found aloneness
And the joy of being shunned and scorned.
Defeat, my Defeat, my shining sword and shield,
In your eyes I have read
That to be enthroned is to be enslaved,
And to be understood is to be leveled down,
And to be grasped is but to reach one's fullness
And like a ripe fruit to fall and be consumed.
Defeat, my Defeat, my bold companion,
You shall hear my songs and my cries and my silences,
And none but you shall speak to me of the beating of wings,
And urging of seas,
And of mountains that burn in the night,
And you alone shall climb my steep and rocky soul.
Defeat, my Defeat, my deathless courage,
You and I shall laugh together with the storm,
And together we shall dig graves for all that die in us,
And we shall stand in the sun with a will,
And we shall be dangerous.

This poem is in the public domain. 

And an old priest said, Speak to us of Religion.
     And he said:
     Have I spoken this day of aught else?
     Is not religion all deeds and all reflection,
     And that which is neither deed nor reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever springing in the soul, even while the hand hew the stone or tend the loom?
     Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations?
     Who can spread his hours before him, saying, “This for God and this for myself’ This for my soul, and this other for my body?”
     All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self.
     He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked.
     The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin.
     And he who defines his conduct by ethics imprisons his song-bird in a cage.
     The freest song comes not through bars and wires.
     And he to whom worshipping is a window, to open but also to shut, has not yet visited the house of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn.

     Your daily life is your temple and your religion.
     Whenever you enter into it take with you your all.
     Take the plough and the forge and the mallet and the lute,
     The things you have fashioned in necessity or for delight. 
     For in revery you cannot rise above your achievements nor fall lower than your failures.
     And take with you all men:
     For in adoration you cannot fly higher than their hopes nor humble yourself lower than their despair.

     And if you would know God be not therefore a solver of riddles.
     Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children.
     And look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain.
      You shall see Him smiling in flowers, then rising and waving His hands in trees.

From The Prophet (Knopf, 1923). This poem is in the public domain.