Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

If you shut your door to all errors truth will be shut out.

These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination.

Facts are many, but the truth is one.

We read the world wrong and say that it deceives us.

The sparrow is sorry for the peacock at the burden of its tail.

The heart wants to go on; that is its dharma. For unless it moves, it dies.

Praise shames me, for I secretly beg for 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 flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not to mourn for it for ever.

The past is always with us, for nothing that once was time can ever depart.

Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.

My eyes have seen much, but they are not weary. My ears have heard much, but they thirst for more.

The greed for fruit misses the flower.

It is in the very heart of our activity that we search for our goal.

Gray hairs are signs of wisdom if you hold your tongue, speak and they are but hairs, as in the young.

A butterfly flitting from flower to flower ever remains mine, I lose the one that is netted by me.

If you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars.