While God waits for His temple to be built of love, men bring stones.

Life, like a child, laughs, shaking its rattle of death as it runs.

O Beauty, find thyself in love, not in the flattery of thy mirror.

My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

O poor, unthinking human heart! Error will not go away, logic and reason are slow to penetrate.We cling with both arms to false hope, refusing to believe in the weightiest proofs against it, embracing it with all our strength. In the end it escapes, ripping our veins and draining our heart's blood; until, regaining consciousness, we rush to fall into snares of delusion all over again

Bravery ceases to be bravery at a certain point, and becomes mere foolhardiness.

Our self (Soul), as a form of God's joy, is deathless. For his joy is amritham, eternal bliss. We know that the life of a Soul, which is finite in its expression and infinite in its principle, must go through the portals of death in its journey to realize the infinite.