Our castle is not imposing, but is well built, and surrounded by a very fine garden. I live in the bailiff's house.
The world resembles a stage on which every man is playing a part.
I want you for always...days, years, eternities.
When I wished to sing of love, it turned to sorrow. And when I wished to sing of sorrow, it was transformed for me into love.
Nobody understands another's sorrow, and nobody another's joy.
Why should the composer be more guilty than the poet who warms to fantasy by a strange flame, making an idea that inspires him the subject of his own very different treatment?