God made Truth with many doors to welcome every believer who knocks on them.

You see but your shadow when you turn your back to the sun.

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.

One day you will ask me which is more important? My life or yours? I will say mine and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life.

Your clothes conceal much of your beauty, yet they hide not the unbeautiful. And though you seek in garments the freedom of privacy, you may find in them a harness and a chain. Would that you could meet the sun and the wind with more of your body and less of your raiment.

All you have shall some day be given. Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors.

You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts.