And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

The devil...the prowde spirite...cannot endure to be mocked.

You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.

Humility, that low, sweet root, from which all heavenly virtues shoot.

A genuine odyssey is not about piling up experiences. It is a deeply felt, risky, unpredictable tour of the soul.

Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must print.