Dreams can never be made captive.
Be brave, right through, and leave for the unknown.
From the solemn gloom of the temple children run out to sit in the dust, God watches them play and forgets the priest.
Where is heaven? you ask me, my child,-the sages tell us it is beyond the limits of birth and death, unswayed by the rhythm of day and night; it is not of the earth. But your poet knows that its eternal hunger is for time and space, and it strives evermore to be born in the fruitful dust. Heaven is fulfilled in your sweet body, my child, in your palpitating heart. The sea is beating its drums in joy, the flowers are a-tiptoe to kiss you. For heaven is born in you, in the arms of the mother- dust.
I do not love him because he is good, but because he is my child.
There is a point where in the mystery of existence contradictions meet; where movement is not all movement and stillness is not all stillness; where the idea and the form, the within and the without, are united; where infinite becomes finite, yet not losing its infinity. If this meeting is dissolved, then things become unreal.
Boasting is only a masked shame; it does not truly believe in itself.
Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.
There is a moral law in this world which has its application both to individuals and organized bodies of men. You cannot go on violating these laws in the name of your nation, yet enjoy their advantage as individuals. We may forget truth for our conv
Age considers; youth ventures.
Let my love like sunlight surround you and yet give you illumined freedom.
You can't cross a sea by merely staring into the water.
For every child that is born, it brings with it the hope that God is not yet disappointed with man.
The burden of the self is lightened with I laugh at myself.
Life is given to us, we earn it by giving it.
You are invited to the festival of this world and your life is blessed.
Bravery ceases to be bravery at a certain point, and becomes mere foolhardiness.
Man is immortal; therefore he must die endlessly. For life is a creative idea; it can only find itself in changing forms
Let my doing nothing when I have nothing to do, become untroubled in its depth of peace, like the evening in the seashore when the water is silent.
Let my thoughts come to you, when I am gone, like the afterglow of sunset at the margin of starry silence.
Do not linger to gather flowers to keep them, but walk on, for flowers will keep themselves blooming all your way.
O Beauty, find thyself in love, not in the flattery of thy mirror.
The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.
Please is frail like a dewdrop, while it laughs it dies. But sorrow is strong and abiding. Let sorrowful love wake in your eyes.
Let it not be death but completeness. Let love melt into memory and pain into songs. Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest. Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night. Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence. I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.
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