And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief. Much of your pain is self-chosen. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
We are richer in material wealth than those villagers; but their spirit is a nobler spirit than ours. We.
Oh human heart, woman is your own reflection, and whatever you are, she is; wherever you live, she lives; she is like religion if not interpreted by the ignorant, and like a moon, if not veiled with clouds, and like a breeze, if not poisoned with impurities.
Frogs may bellow louder than bulls, but they cannot drag the plough in the field nor turn the wheel of the winepress, and of their skins you cannot make shoes.
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving. For in truth it is life that gives unto life-while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.
If winter should say, “Spring is in my heart,” who would believe winter?
A woman may veil her face with a smile.
Solitude has soft, silky hands, but with strong fingers it grasps the heart and makes it ache with sorrow. Solitude is the ally of sorry as well as a companion of spiritual exaltation.
Poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth.
Beauty shines brighter in the heart of him who longs for it than in the eyes of him who sees it.
When love beckons to you, follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep.
Yestereve, on the marble steps of the Temple, I saw a woman sitting between two men. One side of her face was pale, the other was blushing.
In that year I was reborn and unless a person is born again his life will remain like a blank sheet in the book of existence. In that year, I saw the angels of heaven looking at me through the eyes of a beautiful woman. I also saw the devils of hell raging in the heart of an evil man. He who does not see the angels and devils in the beauty and malice of life will be far removed from knowledge, and his spirit will be empty of affection.
Once there lived a man who had a valley-full of needles. And one day the mother of Jesus came to him and said: “Friend, my son’s garment is torn and I must needs mend it before he goeth to the temple. Wouldst thou not give me a needle?” And he gave her not a needle, but he gave her a learned discourse on Giving and Taking to carry to her son before he should go to the temple.
He never hearkened to the dictates of his heart, but busied himself in obeying the voices of his environment. H e amused himself with shimmering objects that blinded his eyes and heart to life’s secrets; his soul was diverted away from an understanding of the law of nature, and to a temporary self-gratification.
For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
Kindness is like snow. It beautifies everything it covers.
Destiny comes suddenly, bringing concern; she stares at you with horrible eyes and clutches you at the throat with sharp fingers and hurls you to the ground and tramples upon you with ironclad feet; then she laughs and walks away, but later regrets her actions and asks you through good fortune to forgive her. She stretches her silky hand and lifts you high and sings to you the Song of Hope and causes you to lose your cares. She creates in you a new zest for confidence and ambition.
Surely you would not honour one guest above the other; for he who is more mindful of one loses the love and the faith of both.
Many a woman borrows a man’s heart; Very few could possess it.