Thought is invisible nature.
Every woman is the gift of a world to me.
There, where one burns books... one, in the end, burns men.
Sweet May lies fresh before us, To life the young flowers leap, And through the Heaven's blue o'er us The rosy cloudlets sweep.
Out of my own great woe I make my little songs.
Oh, they loved dearly: their souls kissed, they kissed with their eyes, they were both but one single kiss.