I never was in love - yet the voice and the shape of a woman has haunted me these two days.

You cannot conceive how I ache to be with you: how I would die for one hour.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you; everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.