But if, as morning rises, dreams are true.

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

There is a gentle thought that often springs to life in me, because it speaks of you.

There is a place in Hell called the Malebolge.

I found myself within a forest dark.

Reason flies When following the senses, on clipped wings.

O foolish anxiety of wretched man, how inconclusive are the arguments which make thee beat thy wings below!