Your body is the harp of your soul and it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.
Your house is your larger body. It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream, and dreaming, leave the city for grove or hilltop?
What is fear of need but need itself?
Zeal is a volcano, the peak of which the grass of indecisiveness does not grow.
Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?