I return to the newborn world, and the soft-soil fields, What their first birthing lifted to the shores Of light, and trusted to the wayward winds. First the Earth gave the shimmer of greenery And grasses to deck the hills; then over the meadows The flowering fields are bright with the color of springtime, And for all the trees that shoot into the air.

Mother of Aeneas, pleasure of men and gods. -Aeneadum genetrix, hominum divomque voluptas

Falling drops will at last wear away stone.

Life is one long struggle in the dark.

One thing is made of another, and nature allows no new creation except at the price of death.

Those things that are in the light we behold from darkness.

Gently touching with the charm of poetry.