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

Reason flies When following the senses, on clipped wings.

L'amor che move il sole e l'altre stelle (The love that moves the sun and the other stars)

To run over better waters the little vessel of my genius now hoists her sails, as she leaves behind her a sea so cruel.

O foolish anxiety of wretched man, how inconclusive are the arguments which make thee beat thy wings below!

There is a gentle thought that often springs to life in me, because it speaks of you.

I wept not — so to stone I grew within.