The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.
Clouds come floating into my life from other days no longer to shed rain or usher storm but to give colour to my sunset sky.
Trees are the earth's endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.
April, like a child, Writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers, Wipes them away and forgets.
God, the Great Giver, can open the whole universe to our gaze in the narrow space of a single land.
For man is by nature an artist.
A butterfly flitting from flower to flower ever remains mine, I lose the one that is netted by me.
In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on the same carpet with the sunbeams, and the stars of midnight.
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