The Best Love Come From The Heart,

Much Of Your Pain Is Self-chosen.

There Are Those Who Give And Know Not Pain In Giving, Nor Do They Seek Joy, Nor Give With Mindfulness Of Virtue; They Give As In Yonder Valley The Myrtle Breathes Its Fragrance Into Space.

To Belittle, You Have To Be Little.

But You Who Walk Facing The Sun, What Images Drawn On The Earth Can Hold You? You Who Travel With The Wind, What Weathervane Shall Direct Your Course? What Man's Law Shall Bind You If You Break Your Yoke But Upon No Man's Prison Door? What Laws Shall You Fear If You Dance But Stumble Against No Man's Iron Chains? And Who Is He That Shall Bring You To Judgment If You Tear Off Your Garment Yet Leave It In No Man's Path? People Of Orphalese, You Can Muffle The Drum, And You Can Loosen The Strings Of The Lyre, But Who Shall Command The Skylark Not To Sing?

Work Is Love Made Visible. And If You Cannot Work With Love But Only With Distaste, It Is Better That You Should Leave Your Work And Sit At The Gate Of The Temple And Take Alms Of Those Who Work With Joy. For If You Bake Bread With Indifference, You Bake A Bitter Bread That Feeds But Half Man's Hunger. And If You Grudge The Crushing Of The Grapes, Your Grudge Distils A Poison In The Wine. And If You Sing Though As Angels, And Love Not The Singing, You Muffle Man's Ears To The Voices Of The Day And The Voices Of The Night.