Take my wine in my own cup, friend.
It loses its wreath of foam when poured into that of others.
The perfect decks itself in beauty for the love of the Imperfect.
God says to man, I heal you therefore I hurt, love you therefore punish.
Thank the flame for its light, but do not forget the lampholder standing in the shade with constancy of patience.
Tiny grass, your steps are small, but you possess the earth under your tread.
The infant flower opens its bud and cries, Dear World, please do not fade.
God grows weary of great kingdoms, but never of little flowers.
Wrong cannot afford defeat but Right can.
I give my whole water in joy, sings the waterfall, though little of it is enough for the thirsty.
Where is the fountain that throws up these flowers in a ceaseless outbreak of ecstasy?
The woodcutters axe begged for its handle from the tree.
The tree gave it.
In my solitude of heart I feel the sigh of this widowed evening veiled with mist and rain.
Chastity is a wealth that comes from abundance of love.
The mist, like love, plays upon the heart of the hills and bring out surprises of beauty.
We read the world wrong and say that it deceives us.
The poet wind is out over the sea and the forest to seek his own voice.
Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man.
The grass seeks her crowd in the earth.
The tree seeks his solitude of the sky.
Man barricades against himself.
Your voice, my friend, wanders in my heart, like the muffled sound of the sea among these listening pines.