The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
That which we are, we are.
Attain the unattainable.
Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.
You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.
The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.