Bing Xin: The flower of success, / people only admire its current brightness, / but her buds at the beginning / were filled with tears of struggle, / sprinkled with the blood of sacrifice.
Tagore: You have made me immortal, and it is your joy to do so. This fragile cup, you keep emptying it and filling it with new life. This little reed flute, you carry it over mountains and valleys, blowing out eternal new music from the flute. Under the immortal caress of your hands, my little heart melts into boundless joy and utters indescribable tones. Your infinite gifts are poured into my small hands. Times have passed, but you are still pouring in, and there is still room in my hands to be filled.