Poverty Hides Itself In Thought Before It

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.

Poverty Hides Itself In Thought Before It Surrenders To Purses.

You Are Your Own Forerunner, And The Towers You Have Builded Are But The Foundation Of Your Giant-self. And That Self Too Shall Be A Foundation.

Love Is A Gracious Host To His Guests Though To The Unbidden His House Is A Mirage And A Mockery.

The Optimist Sees The Rose And Not Its Thorns; The Pessimist Stares At The Thorns, Oblivious To The Rose.