The true joy of a moonlit night is something we no longer understand. Only the men of old, when there were no lights, could understand the true joy of a moonlit night.

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Seeing the moon, he becomes the moon, the moon seen by him becomes him. He sinks into nature, becomes one with nature. The light of the "clear heart" of the priest, seated in the meditation hall in the darkness before the dawn, becomes for the dawn moon its own light.

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The labor into which a heart has poured its whole love--where will it have its say, to excite and inspire, and when?

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The sound of the freezing of snow over the land seemed to roar deep into the earth. There was no moon. The stars, almost too many of them to be true, came forward so brightly that it was as if they were falling with the swiftness of the void. As the stars came nearer, the sky retreated deeper and deeper into the night color. The layers of the Border Range, indistinguishable one from another, cast their heaviness at the skirt of the starry sky in a blackness grave and somber enough to communicate their mass. The whole of the night scene came together in a clear, tranquil harmony.

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A poetess who had died young of cancer had said in one of her poems that for her, on sleepless nights, 'the night offers toads and black dogs and corpses of the drowned.

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Our language is primarily for expressing human goodness and beauty.

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Does pain go away and leave no trace, then?’ ‘You sometimes even feel sentimental for it.

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Because you cannot see him, God is everywhere.

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A child walked by, rolling a metal hoop that made a sound of autumn.

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It's remarkable how we go on year after year, doing the same old things. We get tired and bored, and ask when they'll come for us

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