I’ll try not to do this very often, but this passage has been on my mind since I read it in the current issue of World:
Not for me is the love that knows no restraint and is like foaming wine that, having burst its vessel in a moment, would run to waste.
Send me the love that is cool and pure like Your rain, which blesses the thirsty earth and fills the homely earthen jars.
Send me the love that would soak down into the center of being, and from there would spread like the unseen sap through the branching tree of life, giving birth to fruits and flowers.
Send me the love that keeps the heart still with the fullness of peace.
—Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941)