The fisher droppeth his net in the stream, And a hundred streams are the same as one; And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream; And what is it all, when all is done? The net of the fisher the burden breaks, And always the dreaming the dreamer wakes.

With hand on the spade and heart in the sky Dress the ground and till it; Turn in the little seed, brown and dry, Turn out the golden millet. Work, and your house shall be duly fed: Work, and rest shall be won; I hold that a man had better be dead Than alive when his work is done.

The berries of the brier rose Have lost their rounded pride: The bitter-sweet chrysanthemums Are drooping heavy-eyed.

Ah, don't be sorrowful darling, And don't be sorrowful, pray: Taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more night than day.

There's nothing so kingly as kindness, and nothing so royal as truth.

True worth is being, not seeming.