Keep me away from the wisdom which does not cry, the philosophy which does not laugh and the greatness which does not bow before children.
Wisdom ceases to be wisdom when it becomes too proud to weep, too grave to laugh, and too selfish to seek other than itself.
Wisdom stands at the turn in the road and calls upon us publicly, but we consider it false and despise its adherents.
Many a doctrine is like a window pane. We see truth through it but it divides us from truth.
Rebellion without truth is like spring in a bleak, arid desert.
Say not, 'I have found the truth, ' but rather, 'I have found a truth.'
Exaggeration is truth that has lost its temper.
I existed from all eternity and, behold, I am here and I shall exist till the end of time, for my being has no end.
Time has been transformed, and we have changed it has advanced and set us in motion it has unveiled its face, inspiring us with bewilderment and exhilaration.
The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind.
I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind yet, strange, I am ungrateful to those teachers.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls the most massive characters are seared with scars.
Sadness is but a wall between two gardens.
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
If the grandfather of the grandfather of Jesus had known what was hidden within him, he would have stood humble and awe-struck before his soul.
Where is the justice of political power if it executes the murderer and jails the plunderer, and then itself marches upon neighboring lands, killing thousands and pillaging the very hills?
Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.
Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair.
When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music. Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?