A slave is one who waits for someone to come and free him.

The rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the courtyard, There is not sound of footfall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them: A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.

The flavors of the peach and the apricot are not lost from generation to generation. Neither are they transmitted by book learning.

small talk comes from small bones

Poetry is a very complex art.... It is an art of pure sound bound in through an art of arbitrary and conventional symbols.

From the colour the nature And by the nature the sign! Beatific spirits welding together As in one ash-tree in Ygdrasail.

If a nation's literature declines, the nation atrophies and decays.