The birth and death of leaves is part of that greater cycle that moves among the stars.

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

The thing which seems so glorious when viewed from the heights of the country's cause looks so muddy when seen from the bottom. One begins by getting angry and then feels disgusted.

Not hammer-strokes, but dance of the water, sings the pebbles into perfection.

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

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.

The truth comes as conqueror only because we have lost the art of receiving it as guest.