And Is Not The Lute That Soothes

Give Your Hearts, But Not Into Each Other's Keeping, For Only The Hand Of God Can Contain Your Hearts.

If You Sing Of Beauty Though Alone In The Heart Of The Desert You Will Have An Audience.

The Sorrowful Spirit Finds Relaxation In Solitude. It Abhors People, As A Wounded Deer Deserts The Herd And Lives In A Cave Until It Is Healed Or Dead.

The Truly Just Is He Who Feels Half Guilty Of Your Misdeeds.

Much Of Your Pain Is Self-chosen. It Is The Bitter Potion By Which The Physician Within You Heals Your Sick Self. Therefore Trust The Physician, And Drink His Remedy In Silence And Tranquility: For His Hand, Though Heavy And Hard, Is Guided By The Tender Hand Of The Unseen, And The Cup He Brings, Though It Burn Your Lips, Has Been Fashioned Of The Clay Which The Potter Has Moistened With His Own Sacred Tears.