Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
Friendship is Love without his wings!
It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
The dew of compassion is a tear.
I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse -- borne away with every breath!
One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.