Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper that we may record our emptiness.
Many a doctrine is like a window pane. We see truth through it but it divides us from truth
If it were not for our conception of weights and measures we would stand in awe of the firefly as we do before the sun
A sense of humour is a sense of proportion
We often sing lullabies to our children that we ourselves may sleep
They deem me mad because I will not sell my days for gold;
And I deem them mad because they think my days have a price.
The most pitiful among men is he who turns his dreams into silver and gold.
If winter should say, "Spring is in my heart," who would believe winter?
Every seed is a longing.
A madman is not less a musician than you or myself; only the instrument on which he plays is a little out of tune
The devil died the very day you were born.
Now you do not have to go through hell to meet an angel
Men who do not forgive women their little faults will never enjoy their great virtues.
Love that does not renew itself every day becomes a habit and in turn a slavery.
Lovers embrace that which is between them rather than each other.
Love and doubt have never been on speaking terms.
Love is a word of light, written by a hand of light, upon a page of light.
Friendship is always a sweet responsibility, never an opportunity.
How shall my heart be unsealed unless it be broken?
Only great sorrow or great joy can reveal your truth.
If you would be revealed you must either dance naked in the sun, or carry your cross.
Should nature heed what we say of contentment no river would seek the sea, and no winter would turn to Spring. Should she heed all we say of thrift, how many of us would be breathing this air?
You see but your shadow when you turn your back to the sun.
You are free before the sun of the day, and free before the stars of the night;
And you are free when there is no sun and no moon and no star.
You are even free when you close your eyes upon all there is.
But you are a slave to him whom you love because you love him,
And a slave to him who loves you because he loves you.
If your heart is a volcano how shall you expect flowers to bloom in your hands
We are all seeking the summit of the holy mountain; but shall not our road be shorter if we consider the past a chart and not a guide
It is the mind in us that yields to the laws made by us, but never the spirit in us.
A traveler am I and a navigator, and every day I discover a new region within my soul.
Yes, there is a Nirvanah; it is in leading your sheep to a green pasture, and in putting your child to sleep, and in writing the last line of your poem.
We choose our joys and our sorrows long before we experience them.
They say to me, "You must needs choose between the pleasures of this world and the peace of the next world."
And I say to them, "I have chosen both the delights of this world and the peace of the next. For I know in my heart that the Supreme Poet wrote but one poem, and it scans perfectly, and it also rhymes perfectly."
The flowers of spring are winter's dreams related at the breakfast table of the angels
Strange that creatures without backbones have the hardest shells.
The most talkative is the least intelligent, and there is hardly a difference between an orator and an auctioneer.
Only when a juggler misses catching his ball does he appeal to me.
Long were you a dream in your mother's sleep, and then she woke to give you birth.
When I stood a clear mirror before you, you gazed into me and saw your image.
Then you said, "I love you."
But in truth you loved yourself in me.