The soul is dyed the color of its thoughts. Think only on those things that are in line with your principles and can bear the light of day. The content of your character is your choice. Day by day, what you do is who you become. Your integrity is your destiny - it is the light that guides your way.

The things you think about determine the quality of your mind. Your soul takes on the color of your thoughts.

The things you think about determine the quality of your mind. Your soul takes on the color of your thoughts. (Hays translation)

The soul of man is as a bright light which has been covered by numerous different coloured materials.

Generally speaking, colour is a power which directly influences the soul. Colour is the keyboard, the eyes are the hammer, the soul is the strings.The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another, to cause vibrations in the soul.

All my inner beings become streams of brightly lucent colors. I touch each strand and each thread makes a unique tone.

Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.

There is silver blue, sky blue and thunder blue. Every color holds within it a soul, which makes me happy or repels me, and which acts as a stimulus. To a person who has no art in him, colors are colors, tones tones.. ..and that is all. All their consequences for the human spirit, which range between heaven to hell, just go unnoticed.

As thoughts possess the fashion of the mood

The eyes themselves were of that baffling protean gray which is never twice the same; which runs through many shades and colorings like intershot silk in sunshine; which is gray, dark and light, and greenish gray, and sometimes of the clear azure of the deep sea. They were eyes that masked the soul with a thousand guises, and that sometimes opened, at rare moments, and allowed it to rush up as though it were about to fare forth nakedly into the world on some wonderful adventure — eyes that could brood with the hopeless somberness of leaden skies; that could snap and crackle points of fire like those that sparkle from a whirling sword; that could grow chill as an arctic landscape, and yet again, that could warm and soften and be all adance with love-lights, intense and masculine, luring and compelling, which at the same time fascinate and dominate women till they surrender in a gladness of joy and of relief and sacrifice.

The soul paints itself in our machines.

If she were religious, she would call it the soul. It is more than the sum of her intellect and her emotions, more than the sum of her experiences, though it runs like veins of brilliant metal through all three. It is an inner faculty that recognizes the animating mysteries of the world because it is made of the same substance

The soul that rides deep through our veins, Our red rivers, and smiles. This darling soul, as endearing As dead poets and countries. This restless soul that neighbors our hearts. A perfect torch that guides our flames To immortality.

Your soul: pure glucose edged with hints
Of tentative and half-soiled tints