But you who walk facing the sun, what images drawn on the earth can hold you?
To know the pain of too much tenderness
Hate is a dead thing. Who of you would be a tomb?
Life is but a sleep disturbed by dreaming, prompted by the will; the saddened soul with sadness hides it's secrets, and the gay, with thrill.
Our anxiety does not come from thinking about the future, but from wanting to control it.
If winter should say, 'Spring is in my heart,' who would believe winter?