Rumi: The Book of Love: Poems of Ecstasy and Longing

What seems wrong to you is right for him. What is poison to one is honey to someone else.

Love is metamorphosis, rapid and radical, agile, full of vigor and levity.

Someone asked once, “What is love?” “Be lost in me,” I said.

At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come and press its face against mine.

An ant hurries along a threshing floor with its wheat grain, moving between huge stacks of wheat, not knowing the abundance all around. It thinks its one grain is all there is to love.

Love is not love that doesn’t love the details of the beloved, the minute particulars.

Love is the last thirty-pound bale. When you load it on, the boat tips over.

Look inside and find where a person loves from. That’s the reality, not what they say.