I am restless. I am athirst for faraway things. My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.

Where is heaven? you ask me, my child,-the sages tell us it is beyond the limits of birth and death, unswayed by the rhythm of day and night; it is not of the earth. But your poet knows that its eternal hunger is for time and space, and it strives evermore to be born in the fruitful dust. Heaven is fulfilled in your sweet body, my child, in your palpitating heart. The sea is beating its drums in joy, the flowers are a-tiptoe to kiss you. For heaven is born in you, in the arms of the mother- dust.

Man goes into the noisy crowd to drown his own clamour of silence.

Time is a wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth.

That which oppresses me, is it my soul trying to come out in the open, or the soul of the world knocking at my heart for entrance?

The Great Morning which is for all, rises in the East.

Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.