A butterfly flitting from flower to flower ever remains mine, I lose the one that is netted by me.

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

Power takes as ingratitude the writhing of its victims

What is Art? It is the response of man's creative soul to the call of the Real.

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.

You smiled and talked to me of nothing and I felt that for this I had been waiting long.

The human soul is on its journey from the law to love, from discipline to liberation, from the moral plane to the spiritual.