What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?

My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?

It was the voice of mad seas, roaring immense,/ That shattered your infant breast, too soft, too human.

Romanticism has never been properly judged. Who was there to judge it? The critics!

The Sun, the hearth of affection and life, pours burning love on the delighted earth.

As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.

Unhappiness was my god.