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.

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

Heaven wheels above you, displaying to you her eternal glories, and still your eyes are on the ground.

Here pity only lives when it is dead - Virgil

O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?

The experience of this sweet life.

As one who sees in dreams and wakes to find the emotional impression of his vision still powerful while its parts fade from his mind - Just such am I, having lost nearly all the vision itself, while in my heart I feel the sweetness of it yet distill and fall.