Oftentimes I have hated in self-defense; but if I were stronger I would not have used such a weapon.
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
Farewell to you and the youth I have spent with you. It was but yesterday we met in a dream. You have sung to me in my aloneness, and I of your longings have built a tower in the sky. But now our sleep has fled and our dream is over, and it is no longer dawn. The noontide is upon us and our half waking has turned to fuller day, and we must part. If in the twilight of memory, we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song.
Shall there come a day when man’s teacher is nature, and humanity is his book and life his school? Will.
When you meet your friend on the roadside or in the market place, let the spirit in you move your lips and direct your tongue. Let the voice within your voice speak to the ear of his ear; For his soul will keep the truth of your heart as the taste of the wine is remembered. When the colour is forgotten and the vessel is no more.
It is to charge all things you fashion with a breath of your own spirit, and to know that all blessed dead are standing about you and watching. Work is love made visible.
Much have we loved you. But speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled. Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and would stand revealed before you. And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.
Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering? And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?
Your other self is always sorry for you. But your other self grows on sorrow, so all is well.
The freest song comes not through bars and wires.
Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for your face.
Was the love of Judas’ mother of her son less than the love of Mary for Jesus?
Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet man, But a shapeless pigmy.
Much in you is still man, and much in you is not yet man, But a shapeless pigmy that walks asleep in the mist searching for its own awakening.
Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations? Who can spread his hours before him, saying, “This for God and this for myself; “This for my soul and this other for my body”?
You cannot separate the just from the unjust and the good from the wicked; For they stand together before the face of the sun even as the black thread and the white are woven together.
Said the Eye one day, “I see beyond these valleys a mountain veiled with blue mist. Is it not beautiful?” The Ear listened, and after listening intently awhile, said, “But where is any mountain? I.
For many of my arrows left my bow only to seek my own breast.
And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered. For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly. There.
Solo una volta rimasi muto. Fu quando un uomo mi chiese ” Chi sei?