Is not the beautiful moon, that inspires poets, the same moon which angers the silence of the sea with a terrible roar?
You may give them your love, but not your thoughts. For they have their own thoughts.
You see but your shadow when you turn your back to the sun.
Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
At ebb tide I wrote a line upon the sand, and gave it all my heart and all my soul. At flood tide I returned to read what I had inscribed and found my ignorance upon the shore.