his own mornings are new surprises to god.
you smiled and talked to me of nothing and i felt that for this i had been waiting long.
he has made his weapons his gods. when his weapons win he is defeated himself.
god finds himself by creating.
shadow, with her veil drawn, follows light in secret meekness, with her silent steps of love.
take my wine in my own cup, friend. it loses its wreath of foam when poured into that of others.
god says to man, "i heal you therefore i hurt, love you therefore punish."
god grows weary of great kingdoms, but never of little flowers.
the woodcutter's axe begged for its handle from the tree. the tree gave it.
we read the world wrong and say that it deceives us.
every child comes with the message that god is not yet discouraged of man.
let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves.
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.
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.
the mist is like the earth's desire. it hides the sun for whom she cries.
the sadness of my soul is her bride's veil. it waits to be lifted in the night.
do not linger to gather flowers to keep them, but walk on,
for flowers will keep themselves blooming all your way.
the echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.
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.
not hammer-strokes, but dance of the water sings the pebbles into perfection.
asks the possible to the impossible, where is your dwelling-place? in the dreams of the impotent, comes the answer.
time is the wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth.
woman, with the grace of your fingers you touched my things and order came out like music.
gaps are left in life through which comes the sad music of death.
by plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower.
the great walks with the small without fear. the middling keeps aloof.
when we rejoice in our fulness, then we can part with our fruits with joy.
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 world has kissed my soul with its pain, asking for its return in songs.
i have dipped the vessel of my heart into this silent hour; it has filled with love.
the sunflower blushed to own the nameless flower as her kin. the sun rose and smiled on it, saying, "are you well, my darling?"
the water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark. the small truth has words that are clear; the great truth has great silence.
woman, thou hast encircled the world s heart with the depth of thy tears as the sea has the earth.
darkness travels towards light, but blindness towards death.
sit still, my heart, do not raise your dust. let the world find its way to you.
woman, in your laughter you have the music of the fountain of life.
by touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.
praise shames me, for i secretly beg for it.
maiden, your simplicity, like the blueness of the lake, reveals your depth of truth.
the best does not come alone. it comes with the company of the all.
my evening came among the alien trees and spoke in a languagewhich my morning stars did not know.
my sad thoughts tease me asking me their own names.
the service of the fruit is precious, the service of the flower issweet, but let my service be the service of the leaves in its shade ofhumble devotion.
the world does not leak because death is not a crack.
life has become richer by the love that has been lost.
kicks only raise dust and not crops from the earth.
our names are the light that glows on the sea waves at night and then dies without leaving its signature.
let him only see the thorns who has eyes to see the rose.
set the bird's wings with gold and it will never again soar in the sky.
the stream of truth flows through its channels of mistakes.
my heart is homesick today for the one sweet hour across the sea of time.
man is worse than an animal when he is an animal.
let not the sword-blade mock its handle for being blunt.
the real with its meaning read wrong and emphasis misplaced is the unreal.
i live in this little world of mine and am afraid to make it the least less. life me into thy world and let
me have the freedom gladly to lose my all.
let your music, like a sword, pierce the noise of the market to its heart.
death belongs to life as birth does. the walk is in the raising of the foot as in the laying of it down.
one word keep for me in thy silence, o world, when i am dead,i have loved.
we live in this world when we love it.
let the dead have the immortality of fame, but the living the immortality of love.
i have seen thee as the half-awakened child sees his mother in the dusk of the dawn and then
smiles and sleeps again.
while i was passing with the crowd in the road i saw thy smile from the balcony and i sang and forgot all noise.
love is life in its fulness like the cup with its wine.
love's pain sang round my life like the unplumbed sea, and love's joy sang like birds in its flowering groves.
put out the lamp when thou wishest. i shall know thy darkness and shall love it.
when i stand before thee at the day s end thou shalt see my scars and know that i had my wounds and also my healing.
the storm of the last night has crowned this morning with golden peace.
truth seems to come with its final word; and the final word gives birth to its next.
blessed is he whose fame does not outshine his truth.
sweetness of thy name fills my heart when i forget mine---like thy morning sun when the mist is melted.
the silent night has the beauty of the mother and the clamorous day of the child.
thy sunshine smiles upon the winter days of my heart, never doubting of its spring flowers.
god's silence ripens man's thoughts into speech.
thou wilt find, eternal traveller, marks of thy footsteps across my songs.
that love can ever lose is a fact that we cannot accept as truth.
we shall know some day that death can never rob us of that which our soul has gained, for her gains are one with herself.
let me live truly, my lord, so that death to me become true.
i feel thy gaze upon my heart this moment like the sunny silence of the morning upon the lonely field whose harvest is over.
let this be my last word, that i trust thy love.