The "I" in me, my friend, dwells in the house of silence, and therein it shall remain for ever more, unperceived, unapproachable.

Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.

The tears that you spill, the sorrowful, are sweeter than the laughter of snobs and the guffaws of scoffers.

Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself, but if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires.

Love that is cleansed by tears will remain eternally pure and beautiful.

It was but yesterday I thought myself a fragment quivering without rhythm in the sphere of life. Now I know that I am the sphere, and all life in rhythmic fragments moves within me.

The mute grain turns to love songs when swallowed by the nightingale.