The ground submits to the sky and suffers whatever comes. Tell me, is the Earth worse for giving in like that?

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

Now be silent. Let the One who creates the words speak. He made the door. He made the lock. He also made the key.

My heart rushes into the garden, joyfully tasting all the delights. But reason frowns, disapproving of the heart's bad manners.

When love first tasted the lips of being human, it started singing.

When you resolve to become pious, the devil in your nature cries out at you, "Tread not those paths, O confused one; distress and poverty will overcome you. You will be despised, let down by friends, you will regret it." Dread of the devil has bound their souls; the cries of the devil are the drover of the damned; the call of the Lord is a guardian of the saints.

There is no Love greater than Love with no object. For then you, yourself, have become love, itself.