A falling drop at last will carve a stone.
Out beyond our world there are, elsewhere, other assemblages of matter making other worlds. Ours is not the only one in air's embrace.
Gently touching with the charm of poetry.
The first-beginnings of things cannot be distinguished by the eye.
From the heart of this fountain of delights wells up some bitter taste to choke them even amid the flowers.
Sweet it is, when on the high seas the winds are lashing the waters, to gaze from the land on another's struggles.