Love is not breathlessness; It is not excitement; It is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love”, which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.

We have roots that grow towards each other underground. And when all the pretty blossom has fallen from our branches we find that we are one tree and not two.

Love itself is what is left over when being "in love" has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.

The garden where you sit Has never a need of flowers, For you are the blossoms And only a fool or the blind Would fail to know it

Money has no religion except itself.

Remember that fear causes to happen the very things it fears. That's why fear should be unknown to us.

Your lips are like sugar And your cheeks an apple Your breasts are paradise And your body a lily. O, to kiss the sugar To bite the apple To reveal paradise And open the lily.