You are the fountain of the sun. I'm the shadow of a willow. You fall upon my forehead. I melt. You slip into my heart. It spills open. You surround me with such sweetness. I make it my home.

They say 'He cannot be found'. Something that cannot be 'found' is what I desire.

If your thought is a rose, you are a rose garden; and if it is a thistle, you are fuel for the fire.

If all the harps in the world were burned down, still inside the heart there will be hidden music playing.

Tree limbs rise and fall like the ecstatic arms of those who have submitted to the mystical life. Leaf sounds talk together like poets making fresh metaphors.

Nightingales are put in cages because their songs give pleasure. Whoever heard of keeping a crow?

The pure heart is a spotless mirror in which images of infinite beauty are reflected.