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.

The just is close to the people's heart, but the merciful is close to the heart of God.

It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw, But rather a garden forever in bloom and a flock of angels forever in flight.

Every man is two men; one is awake in the darkness, the other asleep in the light.

In the depths of your hopes and desires, lies your silent knowledge of the beyond, and like seeds dreaming beneath the snow, your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

Love is life sharing, not for hurt, Love is alive both not ambiguous. Love is whole life, not an affair.

We are the sons of Sorrow; we are the poets and the prophets and the musicians.