Lost are we, and are only so far punished, That without hope we live on in desire.
Your fame is as the grass, whose hue comes and goes, and His might withers it by whose power it sprang from the lap of the earth.
Not one drop of blood is left inside my veins that does not throb: I recognize signs of the ancient flame.
In each fire there is a spirit; Each one is wrapped in what is burning him.
If you give people light, they will find their own way.
To run over better waters the little vessel of my genius now hoists her sails, as she leaves behind her a sea so cruel.