“Indeed the Idols I have loved so long, have done my credit in this World much wrong; have drowned my Glory in a shallow Cup, and sold my Reputation for a Song.”

I hide my grief, just like the blessed birds hide themselves when they are preparing to die, my love.

I came like Water, and like Wind I go.

I came like Water, and like Wind I go.

I came like Water, and like Wind I go.

Give me a flagon of red wine, a book of verses, a loaf of bread, and a little idleness. If with such store I might sit by thy dear side in some lonely place, I should deem myself happier than a king in his kingdom.

Thy Return is as another Sun to Heaven; a new Rose blooming in the Garden of the Soul.

Justice is the soul of the universe.

We are thinking about bad only those who are worse than we are, and those who are better than us … I’m just not up to us … One does not follow it than smell roses. Another of the bitter herbs will produce honey. Give bread to one – will remember forever. Another life donation – do not understand.

Wake! For the Sun, who scatter’d into flight The Stars before him from the Field of Night, Drives Night along with them from Heav’n, and strikes The Sultan’s Turret with a Shaft of Light.

So when that Angel of the darker Drink, at last shall find you by the river-brink, And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul forth to your Lips to quaff-you shall not shrink.

The wine-cup is the little silver well, Where truth, if truth there be, doth dwell.

How sad, a heart that does not know how to love, that does not know what it is to be drunk with love. If you are not in love, how can you enjoy the blinding light of the sun, the soft light of the moon?

Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup Before Life’s Liquor in its Cup be dry.

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! That Youths sweet-scented Manuscript should close!

Don’t cry upon your losses Don’t measure today with tomorows Don’t trust to be passed and coming day believe in now – and be happy today.

Tomorrow! – Why, tomorrow I may be Myself with yesterday’s sev’n thousand years.

Liking money like I like it, is nothing less than mysticism. Money is a glory.

Love is reverence, and worship, and glory, and the upward glance.

He loves Thee too little, who loves anything together with Thee, which he loves not for Thy sake.

He loves Thee too little, who loves anything together with Thee, which he loves not for Thy sake.

We all have our moments of brilliance and glory.

I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain; and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out.

The real glory is being knocked to your knees and then coming back. That’s real glory. That’s the essence of it.

It takes great deal of courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it.