Conscience, that boon companion who sets a man free under the strong breastplate of innocence, that bids him on and fear not.

Perceive ye not that we are worms, designed To form the angelic butterfly, that goes To judgment, leaving all defence behind? Why doth your mind take such exalted pose, Since ye, disabled, are as insects, mean As worm which never transformation knows?

When we encountered a band of souls coming along the barrier, and each was gazing at us in the evening people gaze at one another under the new moon

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.

Infinite goodness has such wide arms.

In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life’.

Be like a solid tower whose brave height remains unmoved by all the winds that blow; the man who lets his thoughts be turned aside by one thing or another, will lose sight of his true goal, his mind sapped of its strength.