Things in which we do not take joy are either a burden upon our minds to be got rid of at any cost; or they are useful, and therefore in temporary and partial relation to us, becoming burdensome when their utility is lost; or they are like wandering vagabonds, loitering for a moment on the outskirts of our recognition, and then passing on. A thing is only completely our own when it is a thing of joy to us.

The soil in return for her service keeps the tree tied to her, the sky asks nothing and leaves it free.

The false can never grow into truth by growing in power.

When I think of ages past That have floated down the stream Of life and love and death, I feel how free it makes us To pass away.

The touch of an infinite mystery passes over the trivial and the familiar, making it break out into ineffable music... The trees, the stars, and the blue hills ache with a meaning which can never be uttered in words.

The meaning of our self is not to be found in its separateness from God and others, but in the ceaseless realization of yoga, of union; not on the side of the canvas where it is blank, but on the side where the picture is being painted.

The infinite being has assumed unto himself the mystery of finitude. And in him who is love the finite and the infinite are made one.