We Rarely Hear The Inward Music, But

Forget Every Touch Or Sound That Did Not Teach You How To Dance

There Came One And Knocked At The Door Of The Beloved. And A Voice Answered And Said, 'who Is There?' The Lover Replied, 'it Is I.' 'go Hence,' Returned The Voice; 'there Is No Room Within For Thee And Me.' Then Came The Lover A Second Time And Knocked And Again The Voice Demanded, 'who Is There?' He Answered, 'it Is Thou.' 'enter,' Said The Voice, 'for I Am Within.

On The Path Of Love We Are Neither Masters Nor The Owners Of Our Lives. We Are Only A Brush In The Hand Of The Master Painter.

Raise Your Words, Not Voice. It Is Rain That Grows Flowers, Not Thunder.

Lovers Don't Meet In The End, They Are In Each Other Forever.