Imagination, that dost so abstract us That we are not aware, not even when A thousand trumpets sound about our ears!

Fate's arrow, when expected, travels slow.

From there we came outside and saw the stars

The whole universe is but the footprint of the Divine goodness.

O power of fantasy that steals our minds from things outside, to leave us unaware, although a thousand trumpets may blow loud--what stirs you if the senses show you nothing? Light stirs you, formed in Heaven, by itself, or by His will Who sends it down to us.

If a thief helps a poor man out of the spoils of his thieving, we must not call that charity.

... Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria. (There is no greater pain than to remember a happy time when one is in misery.)