This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

Love gives beauty to everything it touches.

Where is heaven? you ask me, my child,-the sages tell us it is beyond the limits of birth and death, unswayed by the rhythm of day and night; it is not of the earth. But your poet knows that its eternal hunger is for time and space, and it strives evermore to be born in the fruitful dust. Heaven is fulfilled in your sweet body, my child, in your palpitating heart. The sea is beating its drums in joy, the flowers are a-tiptoe to kiss you. For heaven is born in you, in the arms of the mother- dust.

When we rejoice in our fullness, then we can part with our fruits with joy.

The heart wants to go on; that is its dharma. For unless it moves, it dies.

I am ashamed of my emptiness," said the Word to the Work. "I know how poor I am when I see you," said the Work to the Word.

The artist is the lover of nature; therefore he is her slave and her master.