The music of the far-away summer flutters around the Autumn seeking
its former nest.
Do not insult your friend by lending him merits from your own pocket.
The touch of the nameless days clings to my heart like mosses round
the old tree.
The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.
God is ashamed when the prosperous boasts of His special favour.
I cast my own shadow upon my path, because I have a lamp that has not
been lighted.
Man goes into the noisy crowed to drown his own clamour of silence.
That which ends in exhaustion is death, but the perfect ending is
in the endless
The sun has his simple rode of light. The clouds are decked with
gorgeousness.
The hills are like shouts of children who raise their arms, trying
to catch stars.