One who has never known the turbulence of life, in whom the petals of the mysterious flower within have never opened; such a one may seem happy, may seem a saint, his single track mind may impress the multitude with its power - but he is ill equipped for life's true adventure into the infinite.

The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.

Faith is a bird that can see the light when it is dawn and starts singing in the dark.

The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life.

The night kissed the fading day With a whisper: "I am death, your mother, From me you will get new birth."

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.

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