To desire and expect nothing for oneself and to have profound sympathy for others is genuine holiness.
Nothing is worse and more hurtful than a happiness that comes too late.
I agree with no one's opinion. I have some of my own.
A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground; its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn't it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures?
I don't see why it's impossible to express everything that's on one's mind.
A poet must be a psychologist, but a secret one: he should know and feel the roots of phenomena but present only the phenomena themselves in full bloom or as they fade away.