Love is the veil between lover and lover.

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

Much of your pain is self-chosen.

We who love Him beheld Him with these our eyes which He made to see; and we touched Him with these our hands which He taught to reach forth.

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.

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.

Much of your pain is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.