The tears that you spill, the sorrowful, are sweeter than the laughter of snobs and the guffaws of scoffers.
He who passes not his days in the realm of dreams is the slave of the days.
Much of your pain is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
When the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
Your body is the harp of the soul.
The giving and receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.