As, pricked out with less and greater lights, between the poles of the universe, the Milky Way so gleameth white as to set very sages questioning.

Like the lark that soars in the air, first singing, then silent, content with the last sweetness that satiates it, such seemed to me that image, the imprint of the Eternal Pleasure.

The day that man allows true love to appear, those things which are well made will fall into cofusion and will overturn everything we believe to be right and true.

Be as a tower firmly set; Shakes not its top for any blast that blows.

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

Fate's arrow, when expected, travels slow.

That which had pleased me once, troubled by spirit.