Sadness is but a wall between two gardens.

Your body is the harp of your soul and it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.

You progress not through improving what has been done but reaching toward what has yet to be done.

And what is fear of need but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?

Even those who limp go not backward.

You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.

Love that comes between the naivete and awakening of youth satisfies itself with possessing, and grows with embraces. But Love which is born in the firmament's lap and has descended with the night's secrets is not contented with anything but eternity and immortality.

Remembrance is a form of meeting.

Forget not that modesty is for a shield against the eye of the unclean. And when the unclean shall be no more, what were modesty but a fetter and a fouling of the mind?