The moving light, rejoicing in its strength, Sped from the pyre of pine, and urged its way, In golden glory, like some strange new sun.

When a tongue fails to send forth appropriate shafts, there might be a word to act as healer of these.

I know how men in exile feed on dreams.

For hostile word let hostile word be paid.

Let there be wealth without tears; enough for the wise man who will ask no further.

When we sleep the soul is lit up... by many eyes, and with them, we can see everything that we cannot see in the daytime.

For somehow this is tyranny's disease, to trust no friends.