Man barricades against himself.
Your voice, my friend, wanders in my heart, like the muffled sound of the sea among these listening pines.
What is this unseen flame of darkness whose sparks are the stars?
Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves.
He who wants to do good knocks at the gate; he who loves finds the gate open.
In death the many becomes one; in life the one becomes many.
Religion will be one when God is dead.
The artist is the lover of Nature, therefore he is her slave and her master.
How far are you from me, O Fruit?
I am hidden in your heart, O Flower.
This longing is for the one who is felt in the dark, but not seen in the day.
“You are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf, I am the smaller one on its upper side,” said the dewdrop to the lake.
The scabbard is content to be dull when it protects the keenness of the sword.
In darkness the One appears as uniform; in the light the One appears as manifold.
The great earth makes herself hospitable with the help of the grass.
The birth and death of the leaves are the rapid whirls of the eddy whose wider circles move slowly among stars.
Power said to the world, “You are mine.”
The world kept it prisoner on her throne.
Love said to the world, “I am thine.”
The world gave it the freedom of her house.
The mist is like the earth's desire.
It hides the sun for whom she cries.
Be still, my heart, these great trees are prayers.
The noise of the moment scoffs at the music of the Eternal.
I think of other ages that floated upon the stream of life and love and death and are forgotten, and I feel the freedom of passing away.
The sadness of my soul is her bride's veil.
It waits to be lifted in the night.
Death's stamp gives value to the coin of life; making it possible to buy with life what is truly precious.
The cloud stood humbly in a corner of the sky.
The morning crowned it with splendour.
The dust receives insult and in return offers her flowers.
Do not linger to gather flowers to keep them, but walk on, for flowers will keep themselves blooming all your way.
Roots are the branches down in the earth.
Branches are roots in the air.
The music of the far-away summer flutters around the Autumn seeking its former nest.
Do not insult your friend by lending him merits from your own pocket.
The touch of the nameless days clings to my heart like mosses round the old tree.
The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.
God is ashamed when the prosperous boasts of His special favour.
I cast my own shadow upon my path, because I have a lamp that has not been lighted.
Man goes into the noisy crowed to drown his own clamour of silence.
That which ends in exhaustion is death, but the perfect ending is in the endless.
The sun has his simple rode of light. The clouds are decked with gorgeousness.
The hills are like shouts of children who raise their arms, trying to catch stars.
The road is lonely in its crowd for it is not loved.
The power that boasts of its mischiefs is laughed at by the yellow leaves that fall and clouds that pass by.
The earth hums to me today in the sun, like a woman at her spinning, some ballad of the ancient time in a forgotten tongue.
the grass-blade is worthy of the great world where it grows.
Dream is a wife who must talk,
Sleep is a husband who silently suffers,
The night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear, “I am death, your mother. I am to give you fresh birth.”
I feel thy beauty, dark night, like that of the loved woman when she has put out the lamp.
I carry in my world that flourishes the worlds that have failed.
Dear friend, I feel the silence of your great thoughts of many a deepening eventide on this beach when I listen to these waves.
The bird thinks it is an act of kindness to give the fish a life in the air.
“In the moon thou sendest thy love letters to me,” said the night to the sun.
“I leave my answers in tears upon the grass.”
The great is a born child; when he dies he gives his great childhood to the world.
Not hammer-strokes, but dance of the water sings the pebbles into perfection.
Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave.
The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.
To be outspoken is easy when you do not wait to speak the complete truth.
Asks the Possible to the Impossible,
Where is your dwelling-place?
In the dreams of the impotent, comes the answer.
If you shut your door to all errors truth will be shut out.
I hear some rustle of things behind my sadness of heart, — I cannot see them.
Leisure in its activity is work.
The stillness of the sea stirs in waves.
The leaf becomes flower when it loves.
The flower becomes fruit when it worships.
The roots below the earth claim no rewards for making the branches fruitful.
This rainy evening the wind is restless.
I look at the swaying branches and ponder over the greatness of all things.
Storm of midnight, like a giant child awakened in the untimely dark, has begun to play and shout.
Thou raisest thy waves vainly to follow thy lover, O sea, thou lonely bride of the storm.
“I am ashamed of my emptiness,” said the Word to the Work.
“I know how poor I am when I see you,” said the Work to the Word.
Time is the wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth.
Truth in her dress finds facts too tight.
In fiction she moves with ease.
When I travelled to here and to there, I was tired of thee, O Road, but now when thou leadest me to everywhere I am wedded to thee in love.
Let me think that there is one among those stars that guides my life through the dark unknown.
Woman, with the grace of your fingers you touched my things and order came out like music.
One sad voice has its nest among the ruins of the years.
It sings to me in the night, —I loved you.
The flaming fire warns me off by its own glow.
Save me from the dying embers hidden under ashes.
I have my stars in the sky.
But oh for my little lamp unlit in my house.
The dust of the dead words clings to thee.
Wash thy soul with silence.
Gaps are left in life through which comes the sad music of death.
The world has opened its heart of light in the morning.
Come out, my heart, with thy love to meet it.
My thoughts shimmer with these shimmering leaves and my heart sings with the touch of this sunlight; my life is glad to be floating with all things into the blue of space, into the dark of time.
God's great power is in the gentle breeze, not in the storm.
This is a dream in which things are all loose and they oppress.
I shall find them gathered in thee when I awake and shall be free.
“Who is there to take up my duties?” asked the setting sun.
“I shall do what I can, my Master,” said the earthen lamp.
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower.
Silence will carry your voice like the nest that holds the sleeping birds.
The Great walks with the Small without fear.
The Middling keeps aloof.
The night opens the flowers in secret and allows the day to get thanks.
Power takes as ingratitude the writhings of its victims.
When we rejoice in our fulness, then we can part with our fruits with joy.
The raindrops kissed the earth and whispered, — We are thy homesick children, mother, come back to thee from the heaven.
The cobweb pretends to catch dewdrops and catches flies.
Love! When you come with the burning lamp of pain in your hand, I can see your face and know you as bliss.
“The leaned say that your lights will one day be no more,” said the firefly to the stars.
The stars made no answer.
In the dusk of the evening the bird of some early dawn comes to the nest of my silence.
Thoughts pass in my mind like flocks of ducks in the sky.
I hear the voice of their wings.
The canal loves to think that rivers exist solely to supply it with water.
The world has kissed my soul with its pain, asking for its return in songs.
That which oppresses me, is it my soul trying to come out in the open, or the soul of the world knocking at my heart for its entrance?
Thought feeds itself with its own words and grows.
I have dipped the vessel of my heart into this silent hour; it has filled with love.