Life, like a child, laughs, shaking its rattle of death as it runs.
God is neither manifest nor hidden; He is neither revealed nor unrevealed; there are no words to tell that which He is. He is without form, without quality, without decay.
The stars are not afraid to appear like fireflies.
Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.
The movement of life has its rest in its own music.
Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?