ins for my home.

176
The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark.
The small truth has words that are clear; the great truth has
great silence.

177
Your smile was the flowers of your own fields, your talk was the
rustle of your own mountain pines, but your heart was the woman
that we all know.

178
It is the little things that I leave behind for my loved ones,--
great things are for everyone.

179
Woman, thou hast encircled the world's heart with the depth of
thy tears as the sea has the earth.

180
The sunshine greets me with a smile. The rain, his sad sister,
talks to my heart.

181
My flower of the day dropped its petals forgotten.
In the evening it ripens into a golden fruit of memory.

182
I am like the road in the night listening to the footfalls of its
memories in silence.

183
The evening sky to me is like a window, and a lighted lamp, and a
waiting behind it.

184
He who is too busy doing good finds no time to be good.

185
I am the autumn cloud, empty of rain, see my fulness in the field
of ripened rice.

186
They hated and killed and men praised them.
But God in shame hastens to hide its memory under the green
grass.

187
Toes are the fingers that have forsaken their past.

188
Darkness travels towards light, but blindness towards death.

189
The pet dog suspects the universe for scheming to take its place.

190
Sit still my heart, do not raise your dust.
Let the world find its way to you.

191
The bow whispers to the arrow before it speeds forth--"Your
freedom is mine."

192
Woman, in your laughter you have the music of the fountain of
life.

193
A mind all logic is like a knife all blade.
It makes the hand bleed that uses it.

194
God loves man's lamp lights better than his own great stars.

195
This world is the world of wild storms kept tame with the music
of beauty.

196
"My heart is like the golden casket of thy kiss," said the sunset
cloud to the sun.

197
By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.

198
The cricket's chirp and the patter of rain come to me through the
dark, like the rustle of dreams from my past youth.

199
"I have lost my dewdrop," cries the flower to the morning sky
that has lost all its stars.

200
The burning log bursts in flame and cries,--"This is my flower,
my death."

201
The wasp thinks that the honey-hive of the neighbouring bees is
too small.
His neighbours ask him to buil