The smell of the wet earth in the rain rises like a great chant
of praise from the voiceless multitude of the insignificant.

312
That love can ever lose is a fact that we cannot accept as truth.

313
We shall know some day that death can never rob us of that which
our soul has gained, for her gains are one with herself.

314
God comes to me in the dusk of my evening with the flowers from
my past kept fresh in his basket.

315
When all the strings of my life will be tuned, my Master, then at
every touch of thine will come out the music of love.

316
Let me live truly, my Lord, so that death to me become true.

317
Man's history is waiting in patience for the triumph of the
insulted man.

318
I feel thy gaze upon my heart this moment like the sunny silence
of the morning upon the lonely field whose harvest is over.

319