Who are you, a hundred years from today, reading my poetry with curiosity?
The pious sectarian is proud because he is confident of his right of possession in God. The man of devotion is meek because he is conscious of God's right of love over his life and soul.
I do not love him because he is good, but because he is my child.
You are invited to the festival of this world and your life is blessed.
The child learns so easily because he has a natural gift, but adults, because they are tyrants, ignore natural gifts and say that children must learn through the same process that they learned by. We insist upon forced mental feeding and our lessons
Power takes as ingratitude the writhing of its victims
The world has kissed my Soul with its pain, asking for its return in Songs.
Night's darkness is a bag that bursts with the gold of the dawn.
Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence? I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds. Open your doors and look abroad. From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before. In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across a hundred years.
A butterfly flitting from flower to flower ever remains mine, I lose the one that is netted by me.
The burden of the self is lightened with I laugh at myself.
You can't cross a sea by merely staring into the water.
God finds himself by creating.
From the solemn gloom of the temple children run out to sit in the dust, God watches them play and forgets the priest.
Man is immortal; therefore he must die endlessly. For life is a creative idea; it can only find itself in changing forms
We come nearest to the great when we are great in humility.
This I know... That often when I sang, and drummed, and danced, I found my eternity.
The earth paints a portrait of the sun at dawn with sunflowers in bloom. Unhappy with the portrait, she erases it and paints it again and again.
My fancies are fireflies Specks of living light twinkling in the dark.
The sparrow is sorry for the peacock at the burden of its tail.
If life's journey be endless where is its goal? The answer is, it is everywhere. We are in a palace which has no end, but which we have reached. By exploring it and extending our relationship with it we are ever making it more and more our own.
I will sit in the pupil of your eyes and that will carry your sight into the heart of the things
Those who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken words Those who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with you Those who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart
And because I love this life I know I shall love death as well The child cries out when From the right breast the mother Takes it away, in the very next moment To find in the left one Its consolation.
With begging and scrambling we find very little, but with being true to ourselves we find a great deal more.
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