When someone beats a rug, the blows are not against the rug, but against the dust in it.
Something opens our wings. Something makes boredom and hurt disappear. Someone fills the cup in front of us: We taste only sacredness.
The way the Beloved can fit in my heart, two thousand lives could fit in this body of mine. One kernel could contain a thousand bushels, and a hundred worlds pass through the eye of the needle.
There is an invisible strength within us; when it recognizes two opposing objects of desire, it grows stronger.
There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground; there are a thousand ways to go home again.
Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you’ve lost the whole thing.
If you find the mirror of the heart dull, the rust has not been cleared from its face.
Now all my teachers are dead except silence.
Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.
Oh, bird of my soul, fly away now, For I possess a hundred fortified towers.