The nearest to my heart are a king without a kingdom and a poor man who does not know how to beg.

But you who walk facing the sun, what images drawn on the earth can hold you?

Because the soul is like a flower that folds its petals when dark comes, and breathes not its fragrance into the phantoms of the night.

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 highest virtue here may be least in another world.

Yet has not Man wept at the sounds? And are not his tears eloquent understanding?

The truly great man is he who would master no one, and who would be mastered by none.