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

Three things remain with us from paradise: stars, flowers and children.

Not one drop of blood is left inside my veins that does not throb: I recognize signs of the ancient flame.

Here my powers rest from their high fantasy, but already I could feel my being turned- instinct and intellect balanced equally. as in a wheel whose motion nothing jars- by the Love that moves the Sun and the other stars.

Without hope we live in desire.

The wisest are the most annoyed at the loss of time.

There's not the least thing can be said or done, but people will talk and find fault.