If It Were Not For Guests All

Love That Does Not Renew Itself Every Day Becomes A Habit And In Turn A Slavery.

Trees Are Poems That The Earth Writes Upon The Sky.

No Man Can Reveal To You Nothing But That Which Already Lies Half-asleep In The Dawning Of Your Knowledge.

Pity The Nation Whose Statesman Is A Fox, Whose Philosopher Is A Juggler, And Whose Art Is The Art Of Patching And Mimicking. Pity The Nation That Welcomes Its New Ruler With Trumpetings, And Farewells Him With Hootings, Only To Welcome Another Ruler With Trumpetings Again. Pity The Nation Whose Sages Are Dumb With Years And Whose Strong Men Are Yet In The Cradle. Pity The Nation Divided Into Fragments, Each Fragment Deeming Itself A Nation.

When You Reach The End Of What You Should Know, You Will Be At The Beginning Of What You Should Sense.