Then it is also in my heart to be worthy of your hate.

There are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue; They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky, We fell them down and turn them into paper, That we may record our emptiness.

And that which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space.

Prayer is the song of the heart. It reaches the ear of God even if it is mingled with the cry and the tumult of a thousand men.

When the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore, trust the physician and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility.