When I planted my pain in the field of patience it bore fruit of happiness.
Hate is a dead thing. Who of you would be a tomb?
Like the seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
In every winter's heart there is a quivering spring, and behind the veil of each night there is a shining dawn.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
He who loses his mother loses a pure soul who blesses and guards him constantly.