We call it a Society; and go about professing openly the totalest separation, isolation. Our life is not a mutual helpfulness; but rather, cloaked under due laws-of-war, named "fair competition" and so forth, it is a mutual hostility.
This [new] period of parenting is an intense one. Never will we know such responsibility, such productive and hard work, such potential for isolation in the caretaking role and such intimacy and close involvement in the growth and development of another human being.
... it is the desert's grimness, its stillness and isolation, that bring us back to love. Here we discover the paradox of the contemplative life, that the desert of solitude can be the school where we learn to love others.
The chief misery of the decline of the faculties, and a main cause of the irritability that often goes with it, is evidently the isolation, the lack of customary appreciation and influence, which only the rarest tact and thoughtfulness on the part of others can alleviate.
The poem is about comprehension of beauty. While looking for an apt image, I came across this and learned about Wabi-sabi. I am a Wabi-sabist partially. Actually I had seen an image of an empty worn out wooden chair on Gabriel Garcia Marquez's celebrated novel One hundred years of solitude, although the theme was isolation and endless waiting there, I like that. I am fascinated by still lonely images in exotic interior spaces.