And you would accept the seasons of your heart just as you have always accepted that seasons pass over your fields and you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

These things he said in words. But much in his heart remained unsaid. For he himself could not speak his deeper secret.

And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless? But if in you thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons, And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.

My loneliness was born when men praised my talkative faults and blamed my silent virtues.

Passionate love is a quenchless thirst.

The poet is a bird of strange moods. He descends from his lofty domain to tarry among us, singing; if we do not honor him he will unfold his wings and fly back to his dwelling place.

The most solid stone in the structure is the lowest one in the foundation.