When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music. Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?

If you are poor, shun association with him who measures men with the yardstick of riches.

The most pitiful among men is he who turns his dreams into silver and gold.

All work is empty save when there is love.

Love is not without its flaws. The stronger the love, the more it tests you. Compassion and empathy will make true love persist.

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.

For this I bless you most. You give much and know not that you give at all.