Would not the child's heart break in despair when the first cold storm of the world sweeps over it, if the warm sunlight of love from the eyes of mother and father did not shine upon him like the soft reflection of divine light and love?

Every life has its years in which one progresses as on a tedious and dusty street of poplars, without caring to know where he is.

I spend my happiest hours in reading Vedantic books. They are to me like the light of the morning, like the pure air of the mountains - so simple, so true, if once understood.

Thus one memory follows another until the waves dash together over our heads, and a deep sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we have forgotten to breathe in the midst of these pure thoughts.

Not far from our house, and opposite the old church with the golden cross, stood a large building, even larger than the church, and having many towers.

There is no book in the world that is so thrilling, stirring and inspiring as the Upanishads.

It is the heart that makes the critic, not the nose.