There is no greater pain than to remember, in our present grief, past happiness.

Do ye not comprehend that we are worms born to bring forth the angelic butterfly that flieth unto judgment without screen?

And as he, who with laboring breath has escaped from the deep to the shore, turns to the perilous waters and gazes.

O you, who in some pretty boat, Eager to listen, have been following Behind my ship, that singing sails along Turn back to look again upon your own shores; Tempt not the deep, lest unawares, In losing me, you yourselves might be lost. The sea I sail has never yet been passed; Minerva breathes, and pilots me Apollo, And Muses nine point out to me the Bears. You other few who have neck uplifted Betimes to the bread of angels upon Which one lives and does not grow sated, Well may you launch your vessel Upon the deep sea.

Love, that all gentle hearts so quickly know.

At grief so deep the tongue must wag in vain; the language of our sense and memory lacks the vocabulary of such pain.

The human race is in the best condition when it has the greatest degree of liberty.