From a small spark, Great flame has risen.
Like the lark that soars in the air, first singing, then silent, content with the last sweetness that satiates it, such seemed to me that image, the imprint of the Eternal Pleasure.
The devil is not as black as he is painted.
What shall one do with the verse, if he knows not That?
There is a gentle thought that often springs to life in me, because it speaks of you.
As flowerlets drooped and puckered in the night turn up to the returning sun and spread their petals wide on his new warmth and light-just so my wilted spirits rose again and such a heat of zeal surged through my veins that I was born anew.