In that book which is my memory, On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you, Appear the words, ‘Here begins a new life’.

Those ancients who in poetry presented the golden age, who sang its happy state, perhaps, in their Parnassus, dreamt this place. Here, mankind's root was innocent; and here were every fruit and never-ending spring; these streams--the nectar of which poets sing.

Thy soul is by vile fear assailed, which oft so overcasts a man, that he recoils from noblest resolution, like a beast at some false semblance in the twilight gloom.

This sorrow weighs upon the melancholy souls of those who lived without infamy or praise.

O mortal men, be wary of how ye judge.

Here let dead poetry rise once more to life.

He who shall never be divided from me kissed my mouth all trembling.