Agape (n.) cannot be sung: what blooms perishes and what perishes blooms, but what is must be believed and lived.
Agape (n.) that makes an exception of one man it does not wish to love is not “also Christian love” — it is unconditionally not Christian love.
Agape (n.) gives everything away, and just for that reason has nothing to give away — no moment and no promise.
Agape (n.) is as far from idleness as from busyness: undividedly present in each act, perpetually active, never lingering to admire itself.
Agape (n.) is not a mysterious feeling behind the lattice of the inexplicable which the poet lures to his window; it is sheer action.
Agape (n.) is not a refinement of what paganism called love but a fundamental change.
Agape (n.) can be in every kind of love but can never be pointed out — just as one sees all the different men and never “the man.”
Agape (n.) does not soar to heaven, for it comes from heaven; it descends, and so loves the same man through all his changes — human love is always ready to flee off with the beloved's perfections.
Agape (n.) is like a well-trained child among strangers: it behaves well abroad, but never forgets that the judging will be done at home — and God trains it only to send it out again.