Love is not a fire to be shut up in a soul. Everything betrays us: voice, silence, eyes; half-covered fires burn all the brighter.
Can a faith that does nothing be called sincere?
My death, taking the light from my eyes, gives back to the day the purity which they soiled.
The quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love.
The faith that acts not, is it truly faith?
Innocence has nothing to dread.