O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.

Asks the Possible of the Impossible, "Where is your dwelling-place?" "In the dreams of the Impotent," comes the answer.

I sit at my window gazing The world passes by, nods to me And is gone.

The truth comes as conqueror only because we have lost the art of receiving it as guest.

when you came you cried and everybody smiled with joy; when you go smile and let the world cry for you.

Mistakes live in the neighbourhood of truth and therefore delude us.

Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave. The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.