Let it not be death but completeness. Let love melt into memory and pain into songs. Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest. Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night. Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence. I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.

Pessimism is a form of mental dipsomania; it disdains healthy nourishment, indulges in the strong drink of denunciation, and creates an artificial dejection which thirsts for a stronger draught.

The main object of teaching is not to give explanations, but to knock at the doors of the mind.

We do not want nowadays temples of worship and outward rites and ceremonies. What we really want is an Asram. We want a place where the beauty of nature and the noblest pursuits of man are in a sweet harmony.

I am hidden in your heart, O Flower.

In the drowsy dark cave of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan.

Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.