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.

He who seeks ecstasy in love should not complain of suffering.

Forgetfulness is a form of freedom.

When we oppose the hidden conscience, it does us hurt. When we betray it, it judges us.

And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree.

There must be something strangely sacred about salt. It is in our tears and in the sea.

Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache with sorrow.